These are eyes that have seen too much
Of pain and death and fear’s cold touch.
They've seen blind eyes and pale white faces
Forgotten in bullets and snow-woven laces
They’ve seen the nations with no will to fight
Flicker and wilt in flame’s cruel light.
For all the wisdom beyond their years,
These eyes have shed innumerable tears.
These are ears that have heard too many
Gunshots and last words and dreams of plenty.
Philosophers, leaders, both East and West,
Shouting their words without peace or rest.
Even in solitude, these ears will still hear
The voice inside them brimming with fear.
As the snowflakes fall on the ice-turned fens
These ears wish for people as silent as them.
These are feet that have marched through halls
Of kings and tsars and marbled stone walls.
They burned the flags of a fallen queen,
Only to raise them again in the night, unseen.
They’ve leveled the fields and wrought the gates;
They’ve run through jungles and razed them with hate.
And though, some days, they march for their quest,
Most days, their sole desire is rest.
These are hands that have held strangers' hands
As their souls drift away to some afterlife’s lands.
Once raised in triumph for dreams growing bigger,
Their sole purpose now is to pull a trigger.
A new leader rises, his goals a mirror,
And these hands draw his plans of terror.
These hands are bloody, calloused, and burned,
A testament to lessons others have learned.
Death and hope won't give this man life,
For he lives in a world that forgot what is right.