When one goes willingly into the depths of chaos
The human skin is shed reflexively
When one marches consciously to face death alongside men
The return march to life is far more difficult

War is the ongoing plague of mankind
Where all other epidemics battle flesh
War rages against the core of humanity
The soul is as mortal as the body

Men are manipulated and played as figures of chess
Against foreign enemies masked by the line of death between them
Men are the only wall between destruction and domination on either side
Bullets do not kill it is rather the hand that pulls the trigger; the mind that tells the hand to do so

War is the fine line between life and death
A man can never go back, life is too innocent, death too dark
War calls for soldiers and soldiers for men
Therefore war is man itself fighting from the inside out

Men aim their weapons blindly toward an invisible enemy
When they eventually come face to face with their so-called foe
Men stare back with two eyes that fear death just as any other
It is much harder to eradicate an adversary that breathes and loves and laughs

When a hand deals death, death to the man attached to the hand
Soldiers fight for their country, their land, their people until there is nothing left of themselves
When a man has seen death, death ingrains itself in his mind forever
There is no such thing as an innocent soldier that has been to war for they are guilty of their own murder

War eliminates all participants where death fails
There are never survivors because it is an incurable plague
War strips men of their humanity because of the fatal desire to live
No amount of purple hearts can heal the wounds that bleed on the inside

Once one has seen the endless rain of night he is blind to the morning sun
There is always an end but it is the memory that stings long after the wound heals
Once one has seen death, life seems bitter
What is the point of fighting if you cannot remember what you fight for?

Mankind is the destruction of itself
And man is his associate for blindly doing as he’s told
Metal bullets and wrought iron tanks are only as guilty as the hands that made them
We mourn for every man and woman that fell in battle
But do we lament those who returned