The Morning After (06/27/1876) Poem by Sexaginta Prista

The first beams appeared, coloring the hills in mellow.
The morning silence was pierced by a horse bellow.
Above the hungry vultures hovered the clear sky.
Coyotes prowled around, what better time to die.

And they died, so young and so many,
facing the death driven by duty of by glory.
Who would remember them?
Who would tell their story?

Lying on the ground, soulless and cold,
frozen in time and space, never to be old.
Fought to the very end, covered in dirt and gore,
had no comrades or no enemies. No anymore.

Then it was over, didn't matter really.
They pulled the short straw and paid dearly.
No one knew it was going to be the last war,
doing their best not to know on the hell's door.

Finally the sun spread its mantle over the green hills,
covering with its warmth the gruesome chills.
Felt as the heaven cloaked the field with a dome,
calling on its children, welcoming them home.

Only a dying solder was trying to say a prayer,
no words came out but a drop of single tear.
He was the last to expire, with a wasted pray,
no one around to hear, the God wasn't there that day.