His face is carved from marble,
His eyes icebergs miles away,
He gazes ahead, his mouth a tightrope,
Holding the flag to the sky.
The soldier marches on.

He has no friends,
Instead, best enemies.
He does not care for chatter,
Unless it’s from one gun to another.
The soldier marches on.

He does not see the burning houses,
The cries of children, sobs of women,
They do not reach him,
For the walls around his mind are high.
The soldier marches on.

His uniform wasn’t buttoned with loving hands,
No son watched him leave for battle.
Love to him is nothing,
No more real than foolish dreams.
The soldier marches on.

He is a working machine.
He takes his orders, and follows them,
A simple, constant routine.
His superiors watch him, not understanding.
The soldier marches on.

He always keeps his head up,
Despite the height of his mood.
If there is a moment of weakness, a shiver of doubt,
He never allows it to break free from his cool heart.
The soldier marches on.

And when the end comes,
The soldier does not stop.
He walks right ahead, into Death’s cold arms.
He was never the one to hesitate.
So his soul marches on.