We all step to a tempered rhythm;
We fall into the march of a thousand warriors.
The drums keep our feet in line,
And we know — inevitably — what’s in store.
We expect — hope — to be blinded,
For our eyes fear the sight of death.
Blood has been spilled on many occasions,
But never before we put our babies to rest.
Falling from our very bodies,
Our limbs grow cold and helpless;
We march weary and afraid,
To a beat now growing restless.
Chaos overwhelms us all,
And we limp vulnerably onto the field.
Guns and mortars fire on their behalf,
And before the triggers we kneel.
Simultaneously, we fall to the ground,
Now abandoned, lifeless bodies left to rot.
We marched aimlessly toward our death;
She was there waiting — ready or not.
July 21, 2011