Our friends marched for us proud,
sirens sing the war songs loud;
Songs from fall after their pride.
Mushrooms cloud the skies beyond,
as our hearts in hate respond.
Lost we all guilt for those that died?
The wind sighs still, it’s raining light,
and the grin of death spreads wide
before an irony undone.
Timeless now a man guards steady,
with his rifle at the ready,
as once his father, soon his son.