The Three-Week Soldier

We wake, before dawn,
bleary-eyed, spirits low,
And we rush, our time scarce,
morning exercises, to start the day.
A tasteless breakfast, then we march,
stiff and weary, herded like cattle,
sergeants screaming, timer chanting,
the steps we take, to our next ordeal.
We toil, we sweat,
we run, we pant,
we shout, throats hoarse,
heads bowed, hopes gone.
Our rifles spit, the grenades blow,
we recoil, only to be driven forth,
no time to think, no time to stop,
just rush and rush, until we fall.
We try our best, push our limits,
to do it once, to do it right,
but the slightest falter, that's it, we're gone,
guard duty strikes, our weekends lost.

It's too hard sometimes.

Why do we do this? Is there
a reason, is there a meaning,
to what we face each day? Is it
for the small patch of land
that can barely fit us all? Is it
for the embellished, over-advertised ideals
of an age long past? Or is it
for the people you call family, that
girl who possessed your heart, from whom
you left for this island of hopeless toil?

I can't answer that question,
for we are the bald ones, those fated
to act on orders without thinking,
those who are not supposed to think. So,
we can only accept our fate, take
what is our due, and stoically march on,
hoping we'll find a meaning to this someday.