Hmm. Here's what appeared, based on this post and other musings. Not what I had planned to write, but I like the message, in the end.


But how can I, who watched events unfold
From lofty position atop a steed
Speak well of war? (Or ill?) Wisdom decreed
That tales by their experiencers are told;
Lest history be written by rich men
Who know nothing of conflict, suffering,
Who flash grim grins and chant, "Let freedom ring!",
Yet stuff their pockets every now and then
On reapings from their fellows' blackened bones.
My tale is worth one-tenth of any man's
Who, pledging fealty, fell to the plan,
And fell in turn to sword, to spear, to stones;
Now one-legged, blind, burdened with memories
Of friends slit gut to throat, and left to bleed
With no succour, nor sweet balm of Gilead.
To write of war would leave me with unease
When all would be but vain attempt to cleanse
My slate of stains whose burdens others bore.
Let the bereaved and injured sing of war;
For this one has lost men, but never friends.