Here I am, a legend in my hand,
My brow furrowed at the odd command.
“Take Point C with everything it takes.”
The mission is a suicide attempt!
I look round at my men, cringe for their sakes;
Their faces mud-bespattered, clothes unkempt.
What is this war, this play of battered morals?
A stage of stench, of death, of foolish quarrels.
I wonder why I’m here–a weary thought–
Driven in this corner, pale and drawn.
I meet their gaze, so long with trauma fraught.
“Prepare yourselves, my boys, we march at dawn.”
