He stands proudly,
His gun by his side,
At attention.
He is leaving,
Off to fight a losing battle,
With no prospect of coming back.
None of these soldiers,
Most nothing more than boys,
Have any hope of coming home again.
These boys,
Mine included,
Are marching into a slaughterhouse,
Where none of them will escape.
Yet they still stand proudly,
Their guns at their sides,
As they await their fate,
Heads held high.
They do not show any fear,
Any regret,
For they are fighting for their countries freedom,
Which is the greatest of deeds,
And honor.
He is proud,
Which makes me even more ashamed,
Because I do not want him to go,
For he will not come home again.
But he is going,
With no fear,
No regrets,
Because he is fighting for freedom,
My freedom.
I watch as he stands,
With his gun by his side,
Head held high,
As he waits,
To march to his death.