through the streets the
children march. No laughter
tumbles from their lips. Deep-
wrought lines on broken faces;
no triumphant cry of war.
Only this last walk - this charge,
the final effort; all weakness
abandoned - thrown aside for
this one last charge.
facing the enemy eye to eye, nose
to nose they stand. Broken bodies
stand in order, each shot down
but standing tall.
Bodies rifled - no, not they. One
brave last stand has worked
up - forced - a dent, only small,
but a dent nonetheless, in the
gleaming armour of the enemy.
a dent; just a scratch of respect, for
these brother soldiers, standing tall.
Each shot down, but standing so tall.
Icthus
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