They fought alongside their friend's bodies,
Under their general's command.
They did as they were told,
Until their deaths arrived,
In the form of a bullet,
With love from their master's enemy.
Clearly, it was not their war.
Eyes, cold, an endless stare to the sky.
The mouth forming the shape of "why?"
Commands and screams mixed up,
In a blend of unfathomable noise.
"As long as you fight,
You will die with honour, boys!"
Even if it is not their war.
But what honour is there
In fighting a war you don't understand?
A war you personally did not start?
A war for other men
That take your life as their own?
A war that is not your war.