Requiem

Showered by the icy cold droplets of rain, splashed with the dark and black mudded puddles. We run through barbed wires and broken brick walls carrying heavy iron and large wood whilst screaming for the passion of our country. As a team we fight and as a team we die. We run into battle for a passion, not a need. The fighting and killing acts as the pump which causes the enemies blood to squirt out onto our already bloodstained egos. Our fight is our life and without the warm feel of war, our cold blood begins to freeze our bodies solid.
In our final day of fighting, war, limb-loss and bloodshed, the eery solid sound of a distant air-raid siren, would in older times mean an air strike, but has only one meaning in the days of modern war. A single plane flies over and before we know it, the final and breath-taking view we get.. we all get, is the brightest and warmest light you could possibly imagine.

I am a soldier. I am no ones tool. I fight for the love, not of my country, but for the love of war.