The soldier's lament

The battle’s done, the victory’s won. Soldiers have quit the field one by one, until all have gone, all but one. Alone he stood, surveying the scene, the dead silence a sharp contrast to the lingering roar of battle cries still within. Gone were the echoes of crashing steel which once resounded like clarions across a trampled field. Gone were the moans of youths who became mortals, of men who bewailed their manifold sins. The crimson tide in the swaying grass, overshadowed by the brilliance of another setting sun. How fickle, how trivial are life’s struggles? Today the field groans, tomorrow the weeds grow. Tales will be forgotten, legacies eradicated; one’s significance relegated insubstantial. What is life then but to live in moments amplified by pure rush of adrenaline, propelled by sheer heights of fear, recovered from a deep plummet of self reflection.