January 30, 2009
They march in lines



they do not look proud.

They do not feel proud.

They are the TIN SOLDIERS.

They fight not for honour,

fighting brings not honour.

They fight not for glory,

fighting brings not glory.

They march, tiny feet making tiny patters,


matched to perfection.

They are the TIN SOLDIERS.

Their eyes are trained forwards

their heads high.

They are not happy,

fighting brings not happiness.

They are not excited,

fighting brings not excitement.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Walking, marching,

forever forwards, never back.

They sing not.

They hope not.

They dream not.

They don't laugh,

They don't smile,

It's eerie, the air is still.

They march forwards, not thinking.

They do their duty,

no more, no less.

They are the TIN SOLDIERS.

They don't cry, they've seen it all.

They don't scream, they have no voices.

They do what they're supposed to do.

We do what we are supposed to do, watch.

They are the TIN SOLDIERS.

We are the audience.

Audience? No.

We are the witnesses, we watch as they head to their doom.

We are the by-standers, watching innocent march to their slaughter.

We are the people,

they are our soldiers.

They are our protectors,

from our own problems.

They save us,

from ourselves.

They are the TIN SOLDIERS.

They march forever forwards, never back.

Never blinking.

Never staring.

It's an eerie feeling, to watch.

But it's a horrible feeling, to walk.

But that is what they are made for.

They are the TIN SOLDIERS.

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