The roads are rounds, watch

out and avoid them if you --


look for a way out.

He walked into a calmer place,
Away from smoke around his face,
Into eyes of those with wings of grace,
As the dead look on from outer space.

As though it seemed that it was time,
Time to run and time to hide,
Inside his heart he knew he’d stay,
A living amongst not; a needle in hay.


Clouds of dust remind him of those,
Those people who’s sacrifice
they had not chose,
The moon is bright
and the night it glows,
Their crimson blood forever cold.
Deceived by men with hearts of coal,
Without a care for the lives they stole.

So there he lays to rest his brain,
Under corpses of comrades through the heavy rain,
Their faces were frozen in fear and pain,
Had they really all gave their souls in vain?
His wounds meant that this would be his grave,
Is this what it really means to be brave?