Armistice (Gods Of War)

The ink upon this document
dries twice as fast as blood
that seeps into this continent
and mixes with the mud.
The war to end all wars they say,
though many have their doubts
that a piece of paper, signed today,
will quell the zealots shouts.

So they dance beneath the spires
of Britannia’s grieving towns
and let the mourning of sad shires
taint her flimsy tattered gown.
The bells ring their grieving chime
for all the missing souls
and for the first time in a long time
soldiers climb out from their holes.

Home, to children they don’t recognise
and wives who don’t understand
the vacant look behind their eyes
or the shaking of their hands.
They won’t talk of what they’ve seen
or what they’ve been made to do,
mere ghosts of what they’ve been
they walk in dead men’s shoes.

So let them have this day,
to rejoice and heal their scars,
let the booming marching bands
lead them all to joyous bars,
for they are only Human
and they all believe the lie -
but we are still the Gods Of War
and we will never die.