• On sandy shores beneath the setting sun,
    By the cool shelter of the rocky bluffs,
    Toes under sand, there sat a soldier’s son.
    That blood red light turned crimson his white cuffs.
    While resting on his knees, his soft hands held
    A crumpled paper printed with cheap ink.
    As he read slowly, his young green eyes welled.
    His body shook and he felt his heart sink.
    “A bloody battlefield” – it told him straight,
    Not sparing details of the blood and death.
    A gen-ral’s folly’d sealed his father’s fate.
    He cried now, as the sun left in the west.
    Such is the sorrow of a death by war.
    No glory is in it, as said in lore.