I stand alone,
On the battlefield.
I drop my weapon, and it lays at my side.
My friends are dead,
But not a scratch on me.
Why? Why them, not me?
Why? Why did I ever listen to them?
For I know now,
There is no glory in War, only pain, and sorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem