The gears of conflict grind, an ever-present sound, And though the years have etched upon the face, The simple truths upon the bloodied ground, Remain unchanged in every time and place.
The young recruits may boast of future fame, With shining gear and fervor in their eyes, But he recalls the fire, the fear, the shame, The weary wisdom that in waiting lies.
His joints may ache, his sight may be less keen, Yet in his heart, the battle drums still beat; Against the wall of what has always been, He plants his feet, refusing quick defeat.
And if the call demands a final cost, The old soldier stands, resolved, and counted lost.