This is a poem of the inner psychology of men who are going off to fight in a bloody battle with the rising of the sun. It is the night before the battle and as the worried men prepare for the dawn; they wish to themselves that the evening will never end. What would be your last thoughts if you knew you might be killed in the morning? Mature Subject Matter {descriptive language} Please Be Advised!
The Night Of Crying Souls:
The heavy sounds of footsteps, as soldiers are marching in single file
Faces frozen like stone carvings, no emotion, they march many miles
Like beguiled children, they march off to fight, for honor and for glory
Or die a tragic dreath, for many of the men, their faces tell the story
The distant mountains are a ethereal vison, with sunlight from above
The natural beauty that surrounds us, that was created out of love
The soldiers try to forget that they were once men with human souls
These young men with dry stoical faces, the only emotion they know
Banners raised to the sky, sounds of this procession, heard all around
Frightened birds fly off tree limbs, as the vibrations shake the ground
Scouts ride out to search for positions, where a camp should be made
The soldiers rest themselves in sleeping holes, others call them graves
As the darkness unveils herself, like a seductive look in a womans eye
The soldiers feel uneasy, they look up at a quiet and disinterested sky
They know then when morning comes, many of their comrades will die
And who will tell these families, that their loved ones did not survive?
Around the orange glows of different campfires, stories are being told
It's to hide anxiety, no soldier before battle, wants their fears to show
Stories are weaved like a spiders web, imaginations of the human mind
None of the soldiers question authenticity, they listen to pass the time
Some of these stories speak of a mans bravery, how a battle was won
How their foe was defeated, victory is theirs with the promise of dawn
They talk to the younger men, not to think about the men they will kill
It's better to be alive, than have your body lie motionless, so very still
Others share stories of the beauty of women, or the pleasure they give
They vulgarize a womans anatomy, saying what they will do if they live
To plant their seeds in her fertile soil, that lies between a womans legs
Others laugh and joke of their masculinity, of how large a man is made
Some write letters of sorrow, those who can't write, ask this of others
If the letters survive the morning, they'll be sent to familes and lovers
The men will pour the essence of their souls, in words of ink and black
Trying to comfort wives and children, if they are never to return back
Some men sit alone silent, for they have tasted this bitter wine before
They know this day, they'll drink from the blood of the dead once more
They know of this upcoming battle, they know it will be kill or be killed
They've seen the face of death as enemies die, to take away their will
Others pray for absolution, to clean their spirits and their worried souls
Is there life after death, in the blood fields of war, each man hopes so
The logic of bartering comes to those who only care if they stay alive
They make deals with the spirits to be better people, if the can survive
Most men do not sleep on a evening before battle, the emotional strain
The thoughts and the horrors of the morning, can drive the men insane
Some lay very still, others manipulate themselves to relieve their stress
In the morning their destinies will be written, none of them will find rest
With the promise of the sun, piercing though the heart of the dark night
In the distance over the horizon, the men awaken to the predawn light
They gather all weapons, with banners raised, they march out once more
To find the face of the enemy, and to meet them in the battlefield of war