MARCH THEY SHALL

The columns of men are moving

As the oceans by rivers are fed.

There are no far flung places

Yet virgin to their tread.

No names, just men and weapons

Ghost misty ranks with faces dead,

Tramp in clutching clawing mire

In the morass of times bed.

Ageless as gray pocked granite

While centuries fall past.

Some armed with pikes and crossbows

Plumed helmets, gleaming brass,

While wispy standards flutter

To the ancient clarion’s call.

Here and there a bobbing rifle,

Some flint-locks, some grades.

And the distant thundering echoes.

Of the sandal and boot of man.

For as long as the sands in the glass of time

Spill ‘oer this shrouded sphere,

The Marching tattered lets of men

Will continue to march with fear,

With glory, pain, with wounds and filth

Once begun can be never ceased,

For the columns of men are moving

And the hunger of destiny eased.

Far in the distance presides a Judge

That grants the decisions of war.

That will cause a shot to widely miss,

Wile another cannot but score.

No mortal being has ever seen

The dim gray ranks as they pass.

But pass they have and always shall.

They number as blades of grass,

Their ranks are constantly swelling

As wars rip the throat of mankind.

The Columns of men are moving,

For eyes of greed are blind.

StfSgt. Earl C. Nightingale, USMC