Cyrus Mahan
When the fog of war retreats,
No victors stand, only defeats.
A somber stage, where victims rest,
In silence deep, a solemn test.
Alone you stand in shadowed lane,
Amidst the quiet of the fallen, lain.
The living scarce, the dead surround,
A haunting chorus without sound.
Where borders once their lines did draw,
No inch has shifted, despite the maw.
What moved were homes, from peace to dust,
From standing proud to rubble’s rust.
In this aftermath, where echoes fade,
The cost of conflict, dearly paid.
A reminder stark of war’s true toll,
On human heart, on spirit, soul.