The Hand in which They Lend

Unto this country they did go, into the fields of living Hell. Some with faith, some with fear, for their innocence they did sell.

They slept in terror and in bravery, not knowing when to die or when to fight, for they heard the mortars and the murders into the darkest night.

In their dreams they would kill and wake in terrible frenzies. They wondered who, they wondered why, these other men were our enemies.

They gathered their guns and rounds of ammo, and they would tread with care through fields of death, carefully stepping on every blade of grass, for not knowing when would be their final breath.

One would stop and fear to move, for another step would be the end. The rest went on for not one hand could the lend.

They’d cry a single tear for the one they past, there was no time to stop, for they must move fast.

They’d go into the heart of hate, and tiny villages they did find. They killed, beat, and captured, for the people were of the other kind.

Now to sleep if they could, realizing fear had only just begun. For the things they did was not done just for fun.

Bullets came from all around, killing and wounding many. The shots were random and finding them was like finding a penny.

Soon the firing stopped and the silence was deafening. Fear was on the rampage and duty started beckoning.

Choppers came to take the dead and wounded to soft beds and out of danger, and they envied those who had nothing more to wager.

They had no choice but to go on, closer to a hopeful end. Those minor wounds they acquired were left for themselves to mend.

The end was near but not to see the victory it beheld, for every wound along the way, someone yelled.

When the end was found, it was only the beginning, because in this nightmare there is no winning.

The dreams began to never end… to remember…”The Brave Hand in which They Lend”