wings of fate

A beautiful but sad poem that came to me one day.

Air the battle grim
the angels do preside,
brave men upon there wings
to victory they ride,

and toasting every night
the battles of each day,
for with every battle won
there is a price to pay.

And of the widows and the orphans,
who has heard there pleas?,
Though angels watch over men,
who watches over these?

And of the souls that die,
where does there spirit go?
Unto the heavens above
or into the ground below?