The soldier boy that lays in bed, deathly still but not dead
his filthy clothes and blooded face, A constant reminder of the War torn place
with hands once still but shaken now, he Grips his Rifle and moves to stand
His cries of War carry through, like shells of mortar Aiming true
his sight is blurred, and eyes are burning
The hills and sights of home he is yearning
But the little soldier boy that Once could see
Now lays still, blind and silently
his lungs no more a breath to take, and angels bid his soul to take
but none so lucky are men of war, with blood soaked knives and minds that tore
but now they sleep, as deep as they fought, in endless silence
But that of war.
