He stood alone upon the hill, christened with a soldier’s blood

His face a painted odyssey of camouflage paint and grime

A rifle weighing heavy still smoking from the fight

Everywhere are bodies his stomach rumbles at the sight

He lights a smoke as he finds a rock to sit on in the calm

He’s not concerned with cancer just a day that’s been too long

The flag blows limply in the breeze that rises with the smoke

A crackle from a two-way, big wigs voices like a song

He sees soldiers stacked like firewood in bags of plastic black

He sees the chopper coming in, to take the dead-men back

The foreign enemy have fallen and there’s victory in the air

Then the soldier sees a dead young boy and he wipes a misty tear

He’s a hero the press proclaim, when to stateside he’s returned

He stands before his leader to receive the medal he has earned

His salute is razor crisp, his eyes hide his true belief

It’s later though on civie-street, he takes his life to end his grief…