The Price

 

 

As I trudge through the battle field,

My fallen comrades stare vacantly.

Smoke lingers, a smothering fog.

In the distance I hear guns echo,

And every so often, the boom of a cannon.

The air is cold.

Enemy soldiers, their uniforms stained crimson,

Lay scattered across the ground.

Is our righteous cause worth this?

 

Benjamin Groebe