There is sadness even when you celebrate;
Death follows on the footprints left by life;
There is passion burns behind the greatest hate;
And words there are cut deeper than a knife.
In the morning you may wake to joy or sorrow,
In the darkness you may dream of hope or fear;
But courage is in rising for the morrow,
And hope in clinging fast to what is dear.
There is brotherhood that gladly hardship faces;
When grief is great love multiplies the more;
There is wonder in the desolated places,
There is awful beauty in the midst of war.
A/N: Inspired by all of 1917, but particularly the scene in the middle where Schofield leaves the tower to that awful, awesome vista of the ruined churchyard lit with fire and lightning and artillery flashes. My heart stuttered from the combination of horror and beauty of that scene.
(Title used with regards to T. S. Eliot.)