A Future to be proud of
Six ‘o’ clock in Moscow, where shadows of commoners conspire,
By the midday in Morrocco; under the sun’s pyreIn the tempest tantrum, troops toddled forward in tattered attire,
” Just a few more,” I sighed in dread and desire.
Weak and weary, men ambled like zombie,
Languid Limbs scarred with thrombi,
May coarse and tarnish varnish my vessel of verve,
Still standing steadfast, I firmly face with valor to serve.
Wreathed in red, weaved in russet,
The sky… once blue was now deluged in bullet;
It embodied a haven of daring dunes of doom,
Repleted in raucous ruckus of cries to tomb ,
Knock-kneed men threw themself upon the far west at their fullest-
My eyes drenched in laments,
My parve armor begging and beseeching for breath
Mind of mine, devoured by distress that augments,
Yet I rise, unrattled to surrender to untimely-death.
“For the future to be proud of”
In the dark theatre of macabre, the stage unfurled,
Neptune's sanguineous seas shimmered and surged soil,
Amidst passion's fiery core, they take their stand,
Shielding cherished realms, with love's embrace they command.
Some may be bent in double,
Some may be knock-kneed and in trouble,
But through the lament and torment,
For the embrace of homeland's lore, valor we find,
Not in disdain for the distant, “in love for our kindand for the proud future, we will find”