The old man of barely five feet died under the cask
falling to a war he could no longer win
he shed a tear as he recalled when he was
a warrior in the trenches meant for graves.
There was a truce in his heart when he gave up
his body shaken by the sharp cut of a rifle and
everything came to a stop as he collapsed
too young then to comprehend the shock.
Sometime in the middle of this existence
a pilgrim to the field he remembered the sounds
canons screaming in agony, men exploding like shrapnel
and he knelt near the grave never completely filled.
Eyes closed he saw generations
across millennia, come to the same land
and the ground trembled with ghosts
under the uniforms of this world.
Now a lawn large as a country, grows manicured
nourished by the blood of comrades
if only they could join hands, forces
to plead in unison for another day with their kin.
Long ago, thundering creations turned to stone
and will again once another madness subsides;
for now, the old soldier sleeps in his tomb
holding onto this moment of peace.