Bodies fill the fields I see, hungry heroes end
No one to play soldier, no one to pretend
Running blind through killing fields, bred to kill them all
Victim or what said should be, a servant ‘til I fall
Soldier boy, made of clay, now an empty shell
Twenty-one, only son, but he served us well
Bred to kill, not to care, do just as we say
Finished here, greeting death, he’s yours to take away
Could you imagine the life of a soldier? Sent to war by leaders safely removed from the battlefield, they are demanded to do their bidding, to wade through perils the leaders wouldn’t dare touch. They are, in their essence, hired guns, puppets manipulated by strings pulled from afar. Their voice, their opinion, muted by the cacophony of war cries. They are fated to follow, not to lead, not to question.
Such is the life that you live, Harold Attano. Zeus saw in you a puppet, a hitman that he could control from the comfort of his throne. He fed you honeyed words of freedom and reprieve from the deathly cells that awaited, and you, Harold, you swallowed it all. You became his soldier, his puppet, dropping bodies to the left and right, putting your life on the line for an agenda not your own. Your existence was defined by his whims, your soul tethered to his capricious commands, a tragic dance staged in the theatre of his own grandeur.
Back to the front
You will do what I say when I say
Back to the front
You will die when I say you must die
Back to the front
You coward, you servant, you blind man
Life planned out before my birth, nothing I could say
Had no chance to see myself, molded day by day
Looking back I realize, nothing have l done
Left to die with only friend, alone, I clench my gun
One might think that such loyalty, such diligence should be thoroughly rewarded. After all, the life of a soldier is a sacrificial one, fighting for a cause much grander than oneself. Your feelings, your thoughts, your fears – none matter as long as you win the war. But what happens when a soldier’s toil goes unrecognized? Consider the soldier who dies on the battlefield after just a few months of service. Indeed, he fought valiantly. He served his cause. Yet, when he dies, the war rages on. There is no pause to honor his memory, no celebration of his bravery. It is simply… on to the next.
Likewise, Harold Attano, should you fall in this battlefield of life, Zeus will not shed a tear for your demise. There will be no lamentations made in your honor. Your sacrifices will fade into obscurity, your courage uncelebrated. Even your most heroic deeds will be swallowed by the vengeful maw of time, leaving no trace of your existence. For in the end, Harold, you are nothing more than a puppet on a string, a soldier destined to be forgotten.