There must lie a certain charm in war,
some beauty in the bullets you hear.
Elation in charging up a roar,
a distinct joy in the enemy’s fear.

Why else would man keep on fighting,
drawn in as to a magnet’s pull?
The god of war must be delighting,
our bodies scattered lead-full.

Yet I cannot spot that mystic allure,
after my many years in combat.
My friends’ bodies piled in a sewer,
somehow, I see no appeal in that.

The one answer fills me with distress:
Ares’ flame is not something I possess.