He looked upon his scars and wept, but not in pain nor misplaced vanity

But rather in remembrance of those gone long before

The young ones with their innocence so quickly lost

On those far fields of courage great, and of such great insanity

The faces filled his haunted dreams, brothers washed along in streams of history

Names that faded like the colors of the peaks at sunset

Like the ancient paintings on the walls of temples past

Something still existing but with the true meaning now just mystery

The red haired lad who always had a smile, what was his name again?

How odd that faces seemed so sharp and clear and bright

Undimmed by years and travels and both strife and triumph

He only knew that more than any before or since, they had been friends

Friends in misery and laughter and fear which bonds more strongly than any other

All the memories were not too terrible to bear

Light moments wafted by and brought a smile at times

He could tell a tale that made us laugh, about the time spent with his brothers

But waking tales were temporary things which left him when he slept

And late on Stygian nights the drums would beat the roll

He would see the faces marching slowly, still clear as days gone by

And sometimes as on this day, when he awoke and saw his scars, he wept

Scars