The Uniform

In his starched and pressed uniform,

He looks proud for one last time.

In the threads he is marked

As a fighter, and protector one last time.

 

Of the sleeves that reached over his hands,

Weighing down his shoulders, that learnt to stand straight.

And the large buttons placed down the shirt’s body,

That had to be replaced after every battle.

 

The trouser had the same bulky discomfort,

As walking through a sea of dead bodies in sludge.

And the weak soles of the drenched boots,

Which made his feet merciless victims.

 

And a heavy helmet rested on his head,

But it couldn’t fulfill its job as well as he did.

The weapon he’s used from the very start of his career,

Lay uselessly in his cold, numb hand.