we march to the rhythm of artillery:
clockwork men don’t tire.
we trample over vain empathy,
and hail death in the line of fire.
we shoot to the rhythm of our last heartbeats,
drop shells to burn and break.
we trample over love and joy
for life is ours to take.
we fall to the rhythm of our marching feet
we, killers of another name,
we trample over pride of returning home,
for guilt is a treacherous game.
T. E. Pyrus