The Price That Freedom Wrought

 

The Price That Freedom Wrought

 

On roads of ruin, soldiers tread,

Through fields of nameless, numbered dead;

The sight of slaughter, raw and sore—

They’d not been told what war was for.

 

Death measured out in broken forms,

In twisted flesh and bullet storms;

The dogs and crows their watchmen grim,

The sun burned low, the light grew dim.

 

And still men asked—how can it be,

This price for human liberty?

In blood of children, women slain,

What victory can truth contain?

 

The war-lords counted cost in gain,

In profit drawn from human pain;

Their ledgers filled, their conscience clear,

While soldiers drowned in grief and fear.

 

Some lucky few were homeward bound,

Yet peace for them was never found;

They fought new wars within their mind,

The fallen faces left behind.

 

Best not to ask what they have known,

What shadows they have called their own;

What dreams they lost, what hope they gave,

To mask the horrors they forgave.

 

Their spirits bent, their faith undone,

Beneath the same eternal sun;

They knelt in mud, with trembling hand,

And prayed for what they’d understand.

 

The Mother wept, the Son looked on,

Both sides beneath the same pale dawn;

For all who kill and all who die

Still raise one prayer into the sky.

 

Will they be cleansed, or just forget,

The debt of blood, the long regret?

The people suffered—God, they bled—

And still remember what was said:

 

Be wary the face of war,

For freedom’s price is never small;

And those who send the young to die

Should bear the burden of them all.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (October 2025)