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Prostrate souls taxes, lain of blood-stained field,
still, toils an ingrained meaning they had sworn,
past distinct dead plus dying, still, naught yield,
amidst dense hearts like their steel armor worn.
Behind atoned stones built by measured hands,
preserves naught abandoned lead their resolve,
strengthen the talents, challenge tyrant stands,
conquered presumption masque as they evolve.
Since childhood days, artlessness goes caprice,
it sparked this wayward inaneness they craved,
grip naught like festering mid shadowed peace,
tarnished stoked o'er wars honor of the braved.
Life's freedom o'er all harmless that they owed,
they'll present, their lives...their sedulous code. Copyright © TravelDailyLife.com
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