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A lowly soldier in the Argive army
by Kyle Mola
On foreign soil are we, fodder for gods,
Doing the bidding of great men, our kings?
In the epics of time, what are the odds
An unknown soldier finds safety’s wings?
We fight for “heroes,” established by birth,
But battle so far from home has no joy.
If I die honorless, face down in the earth,
What quarrel have I with a farmer of Troy?
Great cacophony of uncertainty, you are cruel.
Lords sit safe, watching from lofty throne,
While servants toil in the mud for those who rule.
The innocent are forced to throw the sinner’s stone.
And yet,
For you, my lord, I will never complain.
For a mortal must serve their mighty God.
A God as indifferent as the rain.