On a cold, snowing morn,

Two soldiers met at war.

As they faced each other weapons in hand,

Their footprints showed in the fresh strewn sleet.

One thought to himself

“I cannot kill him, he is my brother”.

This man believed in peace.

The other thought

“I must kill you, it is my duty”.

This man was true to his country.

They glared at each other through the snow,

Not knowing when and what to do.

Not knowing who was going to strike first.

The sharp edged air hung heavy

Like a steel blade before its fall.

The peaceful man lay down his gun, with baited breath.

In that brief moment the other struck,

His bayonet pierced the kindly heart.

The blade strove deep and true,

A perfection of the craftsman’s art.

On his last breath the man sighed,

He fell uncertain to the awaiting snow,

His blood stained the virginal whiteness.

The other man dropped to his knees,

By his side.

The snow fell gently around,

Resting on the other man’s wound,

And on the other man’s live skin.

For all the sorrows done by man to man,

For shame lodged deep within his heart,

He wept.

And the snow mingled with his tears.