The art of war

We are mapping out the coordinate lines.

The standard-bearer checks the ancient map,
To trap the enemy in a mountain gap.
At Gettysburg, the lines were drawn in lead,
By marching regiments of gray and red.
They plotted out the ridges with a quill,
And bayonets were fixed upon the hill.
The officers debated miles of space,
To meet the charging columns face to face.
With ink and paper resting on the pine,
We are mapping out the coordinate lines.

The Cold War generals watched the radar screen,
And calculated horrors yet unseen.
They drew the iron curtains on the grid,
To trace where hidden submarines were hid.
The tension measured out in megatons,
Instead of charging calvalry and guns.
They mapped the proxy conflicts from afar,
While waiting for a catastrophic star.
To watch the border where the empires sign,
We are mapping out the coordinate lines.

A technician sits inside a silent room,
And clicks a mouse to seal a distant doom.
A drone is hovering through the desert air,
Above the crowded markets of Iran.
The algorithm tracks a moving face,
From thousands of miles away in outer space.
No bugles blow, no marching boots resound,
Just silent data raining on the ground.
To feed the artificial mind design,
We are mapping out the coordinate lines