Of power and glory...

...no one wins. Only the greedy succeed, and they are never the ones to fight and die on the plains. Instead, we continue our death march: Weary and slain. Exhausted. Days are murky pink and muddled grey. A dark smoky crimson. It rarely helps anymore. I did not intend for this, never this. Never this.

I have kept this poem for years...it speaks to me in a way that is amazing.

The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.