The old sergeant cleans,
His rusty old Glock,
A fine old war trophy,
His knees start to knock,
He had been wounded,
His comrades all dead,
Rescued by pure chance,
The newspapers said,
Those lost comrades,
They're still in his eyes,
There is no forgiveness,
No chance for goodbyes,
His shaking old hands,
They betray his will,
The battered old mag,
His trembling won't fill,
He'd give it all back,
To once see his friends,
Tell them we did it,
Then make his amends,
Those that he lost,
Will soon all be found,
He manages somehow,
To load one last round,
Then he lifts both his hands,
As his old fingers squeeze,
A Crack!
It echoes along the breeze,
His grip, slowly weakens,
And at once with that sound,
His body begins falling,
Towards the cold, cold ground,
When he'd returned home,
Bewildered, empty and broken,
Was there compensation?
No; just some metal token,
Daily he visits their graves,
The flowers wither and wilt,
Ashamed, but his only crime,
Was haunting survivor's guilt.
