Death of the Four

A short poem about four soldiers

Those four souls bright, they cantered forth
They came, they shook the land
They took their guns, and fired north
And seized death’s toll in hand
They wielded blades, they sparred away
With foes on silent shore
And it was but one gruesome day
That left them there, those four

To look upon with guises, grave
Their swords, with blood, hued red
“Why must we be but so deprave
To leave all our foes dead
They’re just the same as just are we
With children that miss they
And every night, in misery
They yearn to live a day

Why must we be the ones of sin?
Why must we shed in gore?
Why must we come, immoral, win?
We’re not to fight e’ermore
We don’t care if you sentence us
We’re not going to kill
Killing is moral’s bitter loss
For G-d and human will."

And so with a hack, off each head
Rolled round the blood-stained floor
And it was will that left them dead
That left them dead, those four
The will to live, the will to fight
The will to fight e'ermore
For G-d, to fight for all that's right
Tis last words of the four