The first to fall (edit 1)

Those on that foreign shore that lay there

in their armor, shining like dazzling shells,

littering the coast, discarded, never

again to hear their mother’s voice — How many

of our finest fell that first landing...

how many young men barely shaven?

Too many heard the call to arms, heeded

the words of honor or valor and came running.

They could not turn aside for fear

of the finger pointed at them as they passed,

or the look in the eyes of their fathers or brothers

so they came with swords and shields

and died before it even began… Died

there on the shore of the Scamander, their swords

untested, their shields heralding their bright dreams

in the sun that shone down that day we beached

before Troy and were met with arrows.

How many fell? Too many.

One…one bright boy would be too many

but it was far more than that—enough to stain

that alien sand red. Enough that carrion birds

came in their squawking thousands to feast.

Would they have come, those boys

if they had known they would die that first day,

the first day of ten years?

And the others? Those who fell

or were maimed or simply lost in time,

would they have come, too, knowing ten years would pass?

Oh what fools we men are, with our brave words

and adventurous hearts

that lead us to kill or be killed—perhaps

because we can never again return to our mother’s arms.

Or perhaps because of the eyes our fathers’ cast upon us…

eyes that know what we really desire

and laugh—or worse send us off to fight

the wars and die on the shores of lands

distant from the comforting loam where we were born.