My Battlefront
Sword in hand, comrade by my side,
we face the enemy head-on.
A moment of pause,
sizing each other up
and taking what might be our last breaths.
Battle cries scream from both sides,
a combination of fear, bravery, and desperation.
I grapple with my foe hand-to-hand:
may the strongest win.
Shovel in hand, dirt closing in on every side,
we know the enemy is out there somewhere.
A moment of silence,
for them to give themselves away
and hope that we don’t.
Carefully dug tunnels packed full of powder,
we light the fuse from afar.
I’m looking for my foe and hoping for surprise:
may the wisest win.
Cup in hand, eloquent words in mouth,
we know the enemy is coming.
We cannot win alone,
and so we mingle and persuade,
requesting meetings and making promises
in exchange for aid.
Join us or forsake us, each one brings risks.
I bring more fighters to our battle:
may the most influential win.
Bandages in hand, time is not on my side.
We don’t see the enemy here,
only what they have done to those fighting for us.
We fight to relieve them from pain,
while hoping they don’t fall silent in death.
We support the dead and dying
and pray they stop coming to our hospital.
I fight through hope and healing:
may the most compassionate win.
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