The Duty

The Duty

Seated around an old chrome and red table,

Sat adults one evening one telling fables.

It was a time for sharing they often said,

As I mulled this over time and again in my head.

I watched them as they lifted cups to sip,

The evening brew, some spat tobacco dip.

I never knew what conjuring awaited,

But listened to each word as I anticipated.

Tales of slaughtering, battles that afar raged,

On battlefields demanding each soldier be engaged.

I listened intently for the message intertwined,

A lesson of war about the human species so unkind.

Leaning forward two at a time they did,

To whisper of things insincere or perhaps glib.

I didn’t understand how this could be,

If they spoke of bleeding dying soldiers you see.

“That’s what I was told,” I heard one say,

“That many gave their lives during those days.

Why the callous tone, the nonchalant manner,

If you respect the upheld blood-stained banners?

As I listened to the faulted words of disrespect,

I had to say my piece saying them without regret.

Because of the countless blood-stained uniforms,

There is some degree of peace, some degree of norm.

In grassy meadows covered graves now conform.

To the mounds of buried soldiers called to perform.

So whether you understand what they had to do,

At least pay them respect and the honor they’re due.

In those trenches and gapping battlefields they fell,

Each giving what they had a simple story to tell.

It’s for those that they loved this tribute they gave,

And closed their eyes not knowing who they saved.