In times ‘ere gone behind the sun,
The youthful revel has begun
Their sun-struck ringlets, gleaming, fly
And nature do they beautify.
Their voices, shouting, seem to say,
“Let night ne’er upset this day!”
For it is from smiles and browning skin,
Where childish spirit shall begin.
Alas, pale cloud darkens its hue.
The whirling wind which once blew
gently, shakes the leaves off fruitful trees,
Despite the clamour of desperate pleas.
“Please! O Wind! Call us not!
Let not your riots interrupt good thought
Of fleeting joys like gleaming gold.
Let battle’s call not leave us cold!”
The howling wind replied in wrath,
And blew the flowers from their path.
“Your fate is not for you to say!
No brightness shall remain in day.
When hence from here you try to flee,
Around each corner find but me,”
He grabbed them in unhappy hold,
And forced them thence where they were sold
To fire, smoke, and broken glass,
Replacing glades of growing grass.
Around them fields turned bitter charred,
Their joyful youth from them was barred,
For battle called, its cry a rasp,
Which innocents must surely grasp,
Forsaking sun and kinship too,
And all because that fell wind blew.
The darkness borne on rising breeze
Unstrung their limbs and broke their knees.
How young they were, unlined in face:
Temptation to the Earth’s embrace.
Now children lie, their limbs unstrung,
Their bodies passed, their names unsung,
For battle called without a sound,
Inviting child to thirsty ground.
Let arrows fly and shields shake,
While youthful joys like spring ice break.
With promise of tomorrow gone,
The scarlet morn’ replaces dawn.
Unwittingly their bodies fall,
Because they answered battle’s call.
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