Ranks as far as the eye can see,
Resolutely plod along.
Utter calm, no cry or song,
Merely the dull thud of boots.
One could imagine an army of mutes,
Walking through the gates of Hell.
Then in the distance, from an ancient tell,
A quiet roar emerges.
It surges,
And the men see that the battle has begun.
From the heights a banner is hung,
Rebels defiant to death's final gate.
Unable to wait,
these men gather to vie.
Knowing they will die,
each man prepares his heart and soul.
It would almost seem droll,
if men's lives were not at stake.
A few hundred men keeping the wake
Against a never ceasing horde.
With only thought of dying for their heavenly lord,
No end is enough to break the trust.
Hold this fort they must,
Till death relieves the charge.
The crime may be large,
High treason and such.
But these men see much,
And do not care.
Any and every hardship they will happily bear,
For there is more to this world than Rome.
Home, where ancestors have dwelt since time immemorial,
Immaterial heaven, above all fleshly concerns,
Camaraderie, for those slaughtered friends,
And freedom,
Glorious, wonderful, priceless.
