Of all man’s creation, there is nothing stranger
than war’s wicked design and it’s twisted danger.
In the name of greed, desperation, and fear,
hate, vengeance, condemnation, and all we hold dear,
we march toward war, willfully blind to it’s gore,
to settle some petty score not worth fighting for.
We fight for hope, freedom, and those who lie dead.
We carry on fighting just to end the bloodshed.
Nobody ever learns from ignoring their mistakes;
always pointing a finger to those that the other one makes.
Some trivial conflicts come at too great a price,
but still we call such waste “noble sacrifice”.
So, we’ll gladly risk everything we have today
and tomorrow, we can still throw our lives away.
Man’s burning pride alone can set the world on fire.
Rather than surrender, we’ll make it one great funeral pyre.
When the end seems near and the terror is dwindling,
with the guilty go the innocent, thrown on as kindling.
Our fragile peace is gone within minutes
because even rationality has its limits.
So many broken minds forever changed.
Just bearing witness leaves men tortured and deranged.
With despair in their voices, resignation in their eyes,
they know their own choices brought about their demise.
The silent casualties in war, too, are rife.
All the lost and abject soldiers who just gave up on life.
For them, there is no fight, no farewell, nor glory,
no comfort, no reason, or someone to hear their story.
With all hope, purpose, and faith far forsaken,
these poor, finished souls sleep but do not awaken.
An odd sense of peace in the midst of overwhelming pain
is the last thing they know--nothing to lose, nothing to gain.
Here, on the battlefield, where the red river runs,
men give and take lives with their bombs and their guns.
So many monstrous machines of mayhem
made from the minds of men to murder them.
The stench of death and suffocating smoke
slowly surround, smother, and choke.
Between the rattling blasts of bombs everywhere,
chilling cries of anguish linger in the air.
Desperate pleas from soldiers’ last drawn breaths,
their helpless urgency in their moments before death.
People are killed, blood is spilled
when it’s finally over, graves will be filled.
In the end, when all’s said and done,
those left standing see that nobody has won.
Of all man’s creation, there is nothing stranger
than war’s wicked design and it’s twisted danger.