Sparkatale

The smell of gunpowder in the air,
The moans of the dying men.
Souls floating up towards the heavens.
The battlefield is always a somber place,
bodies scattered like fallen trees:
Once strong, brave, standing tall
Now fallen, lying broken on the blood soaked earth.
One wonders why someone would
rot all this destruction but
maybe, just maybe, like the ones forced to serve another's country, maybe, just maybe
the enemy too had no choice.