They stand for youth. Freedom. Identity.
But since they walk into battle
With only hope on their side
They are not free-youthful yes-but they are one.
One man; an army
Where such identity fades and they are numbered.
One drops a picture of three men smiling,
One chews a grass blade and another grins
Sheepishly, yet one is earnest, sincere and grave,
Anxious, perhaps, captured in the moment
When he is not putting on a brave face.
The photo gets trampled, dirty and forgotten
Just like the men as the years pass and
They do not return home, but fight on.
As the day surrenders to the knight,
It cannot go on-the screams, the terror, the pain-
And each man is free again, in heaven or remaining alive.
Crowds cheer as the bearded men approach their homes,
Their lives anew. Each has a name and each one brave,
They have won youth. Freedom. Identity.