History Repeating Poem by Aidan Cost

An Ebony sky flashes white,
We're deep in the trenches tonight,
shoulder to shoulder in the biter cold,
we don't know what we're fighting for,
we know only their names,
still we're suited for battle,
we go marching through the flames,
the frontlines spread a thousand miles
and then a thousand more,
never knowing in that instant we smash the Kaisers' door.
the men on the other side they look as scared as us,
boys from a different town,
watching their brothers go down.
we don't know what we're fighting for,
we've forgotten their names,
still we must go marching on in other men's wargames.
deep within the trenches there's nothing here but fear,
why must we die in France,
when our home's other there.


we'd thought we'd seen the worst of man,
the games were to an end,
but unfortunately this lesson,
Is never learned my friend.
the decades go marching on,
the war horn blown again.
not for Kaiser nor for king,
but still these bitter men remain.

A young girl deep in Stalingrad lays quiet with her rifle,
adrenaline and fear, these fascists best not trifle,
as the dust transforms the night into a ghastly apparition,
cold gnaws the toes of marching men on a hateful expedition.
she shakes from bitter winter
and from bitter men again
as the pin cracks from her mosin in battered urban terrain.
laid affront are endless bodies of the endless souls we lost
we know what we were fighting for
lest we forget their names
the fires that burned the Reichstag
charred Europe the same again.
we freed the chained masses from the cages of oppression
and with it came many answers that really begged the question

we'd thought we'd seen the worst of man,
the games were to an end,
but unfortunately this lesson,
is never learned my friend,
the decades go marching on
the war horn blown again,
not for freedom or for justice,
and still these bitter men remain.

A young boy seventeen in age is drafted overseas,
to fight the nameless enemy, bring these commies to their knees,
we know not why we're fighting them,
we oppose their liberation,
they found another way so we're flattening their nation,
deep within the jungle with helicopter over head,
napalm skies are crimson, the unfortunate son is dead.
we know not why we're fighting them,
we don't even know their names,
this is the tale of tragedy in bitter mens' wargames.
the fighters keep on fighting
the wheels of history halted still,
the rich man buys the violence
the poor man pays the bill.