A Hundred Years

By: Gus Victoria

The voices call out to me…

Soft on the hill they call,

Where they bled once

Now grow flowers,

The homes they knew,

Some stand still,

More were rubble long ago,

Their shades are the shadows cast

From that Great War

That ended naught,

The promise of youth

By Empire scythed,

The brotherhood of mankind

By generals silenced,

There was Hope in ‘14,

Only the Reaper

Four long years later.

There was innocence in ‘14,

Only cynicism

One century later.

The world poured in idyllic times

Was tempered at the forge of hell

Before, in blood bathed, it emerged,

Changed,

Unknown,

Broken.