Tin Soldiers Never Die

Tin Soldiers Never Die

They march at night,

steel boots on stone,

faces empty,

hearts hollowed by war.

Tin soldiers never die,

though men fall,

bones buried under flags,

eyes fading into smoke.

The streets are quiet,

echoes of orders linger,

rifles glinting

like ghosts in moonlight.

Children watch,

wide-eyed and trembling,

dreams shattered

before they learn to speak.

They carry memories

that are not theirs,

marching for power,

for fear, for nothing.

Houses crumble,

walls crumble,

wind carries names

that will not be remembered.

Tin soldiers never die,

they return in shadows,

in nightmares,

in the trembling hands of mothers.

The sky opens,

fire rains down,

the world counts

what is left of hope.

Somewhere a soldier whispers,

“I wanted peace,”

but the brass voice

does not answer.

Blood and dust mix,

footsteps fall into silence,

yet the march goes on,

metal clanging against metal.

Tin soldiers never die,

they walk through memory,

through loss, through grief,

through the lives they took.

God save the living,

and forgive the dead,

for they were only soldiers,

marching for someone else.