Secret TearsSecret Tears
The figure stood upon the crest,
of the ridge of spirits laid to rest.
He stared across the barren land,
laid to waste by mans own hand.
Like a shadow the figure stood,
against the sky, a backdrop of blood.
The figure shed a single tear,
for comrades afar and yet so near.
And on the figure stood, alone,
in the midst of the torn up battle zone.
And as he stood, the figure thought...
Battles may be won and battles may be lost,
But what they all have in common is that they're fought.
But that was then and that war has finished,
so surely hate and violence have diminished?
Alas, their sacrifice was for nought,
for in the web of human nature we are caught.
Content to stay the same as before,
yet aware of what society can hold in store.
For too many people have nightmares, not dreams,
hoping someone will hear their silent screams.
Hoping against hope that if they cry,
someone will answer and their tears may dry.
But for many, their hopes are in vain,
and secret tear