In the realms of the border,
the bones of the armed, shudder.
with every passing second
with every passing plane
the hope of a truce,in him, shall mutter.
seek he did, the nourished soul,
to live fast and die young
the utter tenacity, to wait.
who shall tell him,
that truce may never come
the tattle is not of armistice, quietude.
the tattle is that of blood and earth.
the pure action of armament
shall foresee the dusk
but who shall tell him,
that dawn may never come.
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