Looking Glass of War

I looked,
into the looking glass
of war.

And looking
back at me
through the misty eyes
of time,
the demented, decimated
faces of the dead.

Old soldiers,
who surrendered
their last breath,
on broken battle fields,
so many
years before.

I looked through
the looking glass
of war,
into distant
fields of green.
Into the eyes
of the young.

Young soldiers
waiting,
waiting for the call.

Do they think?
Do they dream?
Dream of
some distant glory?

Do they believe,
that a bullet
could ever
wear their name?

As they play,
on football fields,
on football fields of green.

As they play
in a time,
when tomorrow
is a thing
that’s never been.
Do they feel,
the bullet?
The thrusting
of cold
bayonet steel?

Do they feel
shrapnel from
a closely
hidden bomb?
Do they image
the medals
they will win?

Do they see
each comrade,
each brother,
each and everyone,
being welcomed
to warm wonder
of home?

Heroes of
a brilliant,
noble, victory.

Will they ever be,
ready for
the horror,
the reality?

I looked
deep, deep into
the looking glass
of war.

I looked long,
I looked intently,
until
I could look no more.