In the windy air, I heard the wings of death.

In the fog of the morning, I saw the spirits of those who died.

In the sigh of the wind, I heard their last lingering breath.

Even in the end, they died with a sense of soldierly pride.

They fought to preserve something they felt was worth dying for.

Saying goodbye to families, children and wives,

they trekked out to meet what destiny had in store.

In doing so, they gave up their future and their lives.

I saw statues of men who died in the midst of chaos, strife and cannon smoke.

I heard stories of bravery and acts of kindness in midst of the dark and the light.

I read of tales told over campfires, of lively songs, and here and there a witty joke.

I took pleasure in a now peaceful countryside that once wasn’t so sunny and bright.

The visit to the battleground affected me in a lot of ways.

Funny, I don’t think it was about the loss of lives that struck me so much.

It was the sacrifice that each man who died gave in that smoky haze....

as they walked into certain death, far away from their loved ones touch.