With a heavy heart, a tired look on his face,
A rifle hanging on his shoulder, he walked a slow pace.
Wounded, he needed attention,
But compared to others, he needed little mention.
The battle over, the war only begun,
His fighting halted, but not close to done.
His jacket tattered, splotched with mud,
And not just with his own, was it stained with blood.
The soldier had both seen and done the horrific,
But what he had to do was hardly his choice pick.
There was only one rule as he fought:
Kill or be killed,
shoot or be shot.
No matter who you were, nor what you willed.
A country--at war with its own--
South became 'Feds, North became Yanks.
Wrongs of both sides became known,
From the lowest soldier to the highest in ranks.
You could've been that soldier, sweat covered brow, and blood stained hands,
Wounded and tired--but for victory he stands.
And whether he lost,
Or whether he won,
Whether he died or didn't pay that cost--
He stood and fought, never trying to run.
We were not part of their generation,
But we can surely remember them in the history of our nation.