We hear of heroes passing through,
dumb men who cannot see
nor hear acclaim.
If blood be shed to curb that blood be shed,
for whose blood do they die?
For what traverse that stony land so far away,
where death lies wait at every step they take?
Their camp so different
to our pastures green and quilted luxury.
Where are their thoughts,
their bodies settling in the dust,
perhaps to sleep awhile?
What waits the morning?
To be that dust in one short day?
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