Ode To The World's War Dead Poem by Thomas Sinclair

Once I heard a tale that said, upon the path of life we tread
There are twists and turns, and brambles through which attempt to thread,
The way is dangerous, though down that path we head,
the dangers, passed, the eventual night we fight
Though through our one brief existence, the marrow of life is bled
We all see the first dawn, and the morn, and the light.

The haft of the Arrow, feathered with the Eagle's own plumes,
Life after death, many in the world assume
We claim we know humanity's past, our future too we presume
Many among us ignore that past, and are by it doomed to repeat
Our past, our failure, our doom
Though perhaps if we try, we truly can learn, that to learn is a capable feat

In times gone by, men marched to war,
Men four abreast, two hundred score or more,
Off they marched, as corps was annihilated after corps
Victory, anything but, the slaughter plain to see
War is hell, said the general, as his orders the guts from a ranker tore
Victory is glory, we here do see, but the soldier, he would be last to agree


War is the residence, of shallow men, who think of naught but glory
And what of those who think of the horror, and want to end its lengthily foray,
And what of those, who want the end, he who has seen it rear its head, gory
The man who was the joker first, and whistled with a lark
The man who was the conscript, and wants to end war's hoary story
The man whose life was ended with a flash his last thought the gun's bark.

Now stand there among the bones, of those now dead and ask
What king of glory brought you here, and brought death himself strait to task
What king of honor have you now, your revulsion, the gore does unmask
The dead are gone, forgotten, the dying soon to follow,
The bitter drink they swallowed, sacrifice, for them that life had pored from its bottomless cask
And now there they lie, empty shells, blank of stare, poor, and hollow.

And what of their memory, what shall it become
Shall their memory be of glory, their dignity but a crumb
In the Schools and in the churches, of their honorable sacrifice is sung
They must be remembered for what they were before, before the war upon them burst,
Before conflict dug in her bloody claws, and death to them had clung,
And every man shall be remember for what he gave up, and every man jack of them first.