I am a soldier and a soldier's son.
Glory is held in the form of my gun.
A cross of predestination
my only hope for salvation.

Our battle is righteous
or so we are told.
Trained deadly prowess
paid with holy, black gold.


And now...
dying in this hole...
one final irony I behold.

My spirit soars home to see
a thousand tombstones,
draped with my nation's colors.
On each rest a single white flower.

Glory and Salvation?
Ain't that the way it goes?
Paid with final completion;
just one wiltin' rose.  


©  S.Loeding
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