Broken Soldiers Poem by B.M Lewis

We are not more than twenty years old.
But young? Youth?
That is long ago. We are old folk,
Our early life cut off the moment we came here.
We are cut off from activity,
From striving,
From progress,
We believe in such things no longer;
We believe only in the war:
This war which has ruined everything for us.
Forlorn like children, experienced like old men,
We are crude, sorrowful, superficial.
We are lost.
I was a soldier, but now I am nothing.
I am alone and helpless,
Waging a wild and senseless fight.
Alone.
By myself.
Through the years our business has been killing.
It was our first calling in life,
Our knowledge of life limited to death.
What will happen afterwards?
What shall come out of us?
When we go home, we will be weary,
Broken,
Burnt out,
Rootless,
Without hope.
Men will not understand us.
The generation before will return to it's old occupations,
The war will be forgotten.
The generation after us will be strange to us,

They will push us aside.
We will be superfluous to even ourselves.
Years will pass.
We will grow older.
Some will adapt.
Some will submit.
Most will be bewildered.
But in the end, we shall fall to ruin.
Alone.
Without hope.
Without fear.
But alone.