It was suppose to be the end,
The end of all conflicts,
The end of all beginnings,
and the end of it all…
The inevitable breath that forecasted
a thunderstorm of cries into the nights
that turned to day in the wake of shellings.
They whistled and hurled into the mist,
and the fog that condensed ghosts into hordes,
magically wandering the trenches
as their bewildering grows.
Not the hands that shook,
nor the suits that shone,
shoulder-cut and pressed
to a perfecting being.
The Oxfords that sounded
into the empty halls of diplomacy.
Could bring this war into a halting terminal.
Take me back to my wife, mother and brothers…
I am a long lost soul in the golden burials of man’s greed.
– Epitaph of a fallen hero on an unmarked grave.