I. The Call to Arms

When first the war was whispered on the breeze,
It stirred the hearts of townsfolk, young and old;
They cheered the marching feet with joy and ease,
As though the world were brave and valor bold.
With flags aloft and songs upon the tongue,
They sent their sons to war with hopeful eyes;
Each boy a knight, each tear withheld and flung—
A noble cause beneath the shrouded skies.
But little knew they of the truth ahead,
The mud, the stench, the groans no hymn can drown;
They pictured battle’s field as glory’s bed,
And dreamed of men returning with renown.
Yet war’s grim hand would teach them all too late:
The rose of honor blooms through fields of hate.

II. The Letter Unread

They passed the weeks with knitting, prayer, and song,
And rationed meat and sugar with a smile;
Each sacrifice declared to right the wrong,
Each hardship borne to make the death worthwhile.
The papers fed them tales of gallant deeds,
Of foes repelled and lines that held with pride;
They read not of the blood that soaked the reeds,
Nor of the fear their shining sons must hide.
Then came the notes—those dreaded slips of white—
A telegram, a name, a nation's debt;
The village bowed beneath the blackened night,
Its bells grown still, its laughter long since set.
And still they spoke of duty, just and pure,
While mourning lads who'd marched and now endure.

III. The Quiet Doubt

In time, the ribbons faded, songs grew dry,
And questions stirred beneath the veils and veers—
Why must the young so senseless, countless die?
What cause could earn a mother's endless tears?
The parlor talk once bold with warlike zest
Now cooled beneath the weight of loss and dread;
Each empty chair, each coat no longer pressed,
Became a shrine to ghosts that war had fed.
And yet, to doubt the war was near to sin,
For grief and faith in silence made their truce;
The preacher spoke of victory within,
While widows clutched at memories’ fading use.
So hearts were taught to break and still be brave,
And sing of peace beside an open grave.

Finis.

Let not the banners blind the watchful soul,
For war devours more than it claims to toll.