Where ever there is a war,
A poet will surely be there,
With a rifle in his hands,
And bullets snapping through his hair.
Like all of his brothers,
He will stand and fight,
Till his very last breath,
Under the suns blistering light.
His every feeling and thought,
Will be written by his bloodied hand,
Not asking for your forgiveness,
But for you to understand.
If I was to die in any way,
I would hope not to be alone,
But with those brothers on the front,
And maybe have a poem on my headstone.