The lonely soldiers
Two are young, one is old, one is tired, and one is bold,
One is crying, one is searching, one is teaching, one is praying for peace,
They sit at a round table sharing war stories,
They are comrades fighting a silent, deadly, and invisible foe.
They did not suffer for a country, king, honor, or valor.
There are no uniforms, medals of war do not bedeck their coats.
No ceremony is held here, a look is all it needs.
For these comrades fight an enemy the world doesn’t see-
For they are the soldiers of pain.
Here, they gather, sharing their simple burden among each other,
Eyes and voices the only clue to others that something here is strange.
There is a tall man speaking of surgery and a certain day years ago, etched into his mind, and in that of the world. l
You would never see the truth in him, but you will love him.
In searching for a cure, he found a life, and sits with us again,
Refusing to give up the fight, hoping his son will learn from his will and might.
Beside him, a young blond sits smiling at him.
She is thinking, tired, yet hoping the next step will be better than the last.
If you did not know, or listen, you would not know how weary of pain she is,
Tears fall for a moment, until it is dried by the soldier next to her.
Beside her, sits another young lady,
She fights bravely, shouldering a burden that only these people understand.
She grasps a mandala like gold, praying for peace,
You would not recognize this soldier;
Dark glasses, and IV scars mark her,
the only signs that her body is, once more betraying her.
Next her, another fights the battle visibly, though few understand why she cannot sit,
Why she cannot wait, and why she still fights.
But she is here, braver than the bravest warrior,
Fighting for new life.
Finally, the old man speaks,
Imparting the wisdom of age, encouraging others to fight,
Like the drummer, he sets the marching tune,
Like Henry at Agincourt, he exhorts others to be brave and to fight,
And then realizes that everyone is fighting, and with strength will fight again.
Their enemy is not a country or a king or terrorist,
It is pain- dark, deep, horrible, terrifying pain.
“Pain doesn’t kill” a doctor says, and together they dispute it-
As mankind’s worst ill takes away youth, beauty, life and strength.
The dark enemy moves quietly, invisibly,
In a way that only these can see,
Yet still they fight.
At this round table, there are no legends,
No Arthur blazing in and leading the fight,
No glorious cause, no Merlin and no castle.
Here the only quest is for relief, for normalcy, and for help.
Here they sit- young, old, true and bold
One is a banker, one a builder, one a jester, one a minstrel, and one is a teacher.
They silently join hands,
Pick up their swords again, and leave, whistling into the breech of pain.
No comments:
Post a Comment