The old warriors cry

Perchance, it was a dream.

We were flesh and cheeks, decades ago
Marched the land with mud in our boots,
Courage in our faces and loyalty in our chests
Slinged our bolos and guns to protect Perlas and its people
from the life-stealing villains lurking in the day
We perished from blood to bones
with an oath in our lips
Get up, Stand up
against the fiend.

Perhaps it is a dream.
We, tired and rotting bones,
who fought to defend Perlas with all our courage,
peaceful for years in our graveyard,
still aching but consolable
We, tired and rotting bones,
were shattered
when the man who spilled the blood of the innocents,
destroyed their homes,
left their bodies for the reaper,
came and lived with us.
The foe
now sleeps in our home.

Wish its just a dream

The tired and dead bones we are,
embrace the old fighters pain
Singing of our wounds,
scars, stings and shocks
Some bodies heard
and they sing with us.
But more bodies dont.
They sing louder of his glory and wisdom
and chant deeper of contempt.

It is easy to turn a blind eye

when you were never hurt.
It is difficult to heal when
you suffered the whips and whacks,
when your children are all missing skeletons,
when the countrymen you fought and died for
glorify its killer
Perhaps he deserves sympathy.
Perhaps he deserves rest.

But dont we?