The dead march, and the living cower,
But for a few: to the many, oathbound.
Their steel is sharp, their faces dour
Facing millions, yet no deserters are found.

The dead strike, and the living freeze.
A few hold banners, swords, axes, spears.
The day is yet theirs to seize--
Glory awaits beyond their fears.

The dead live, and the living die.
A banner flutters atop cold, grey walls.
It is seen by none.