In War

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Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled,
  By each new victim of the combat torn--
Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity,
  Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn.
Alas! the wife will find a consolation.
  The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn.

But somewhere is the one soul that remembers--
  That will remember unto death's dark shore,
Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken mother
  Forget the sons gone down on fields of gore.
One soul there is that like the weeping willow
  Can never raise its drooping branches more.

© Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov