Old Soldiers

An Ode to the Forgotten
Herein lies the last testament of my life,
As I rest one final time
Here under the shade of this Trysting Tree.
A Yeoman, in service to king and country.
Of importance, I have none.
I am but some unnamed soldier.
Loyal to a man of ambition, to a country that I have given my life for.
A country that fast I defended,
A country that gives me respite one last time
As I lie and await a fate fast coming,
Here under the shade of this Trysting Tree.

I am a thing of flesh and bone only.
And as I lay my head upon the knotted roots and stare out towards the horizon,
I find comfort, however small,
Here, under the shade of this Trysting Tree.
I have fought with blade and bone, sweat and loyalty.
To a man of ambition, for a country that I have given my life for.
How the histories shall remember me, I know not.
Men such as myself are nameless, but vital.
Ever the gyre in the machinations of ambitious men.

My thoughts turn first to thirst and hunger.
The sweet taste of some fragrant ale,
The gritty oat of tumbledown bread.
A strange thought, I know.
That the final moments of my life would dwell upon such fleeting want.
For I shall never again hunger or thirst for such things again.
It is something I shall miss.

My second thought dwells upon my family.
Above all things I shall miss them the most.
To a mother and father,
To wife and child.
They shall weep for me I know.
But I shed not one tear for them, because I carry their memory with me,
Here, as I lay down under the shade of this Trysting Tree.
It is something that I shall cherish.

My third thought dwells upon my legacy.
As a soldier, as a gyre of ambitious coils,
I wonder if my loyalty to king and country,
Shall be remember'd fondly.
For our histories are shaped by the victor,
And if I gave my life in just and victory,
Let the thought of my legacy mean a just and victorious end.
It is something that I shall dwell upon until the end.

And at last, my thoughts dwell upon the future.
For if my struggles bear fruit,
Then may the country, this handful of sand and brook,
May it stand forever.
But if my struggles be for naught,
If my country be thought vile,
Then may better men than I
Lead it to a better destiny.
It is something that I shall hope for.

And as my thoughts drift,
Written upon nothing but ash
And scattered by the wind to be a thing forgotten
Then leave me this calming solace
As I rest my eyes one final time,
Here, under the shade of this Trysting Tree.

For as a man of blood and bone, I have become nothing.
But in spirit, I have become everything.