Falling Whistles

Nameless,
Faceless.
A sould without value.
Anxious,
Nervous.
They march away from their land and home.
Lonley,
Terrified.
They sit in the shadows until lash meets bone again.
Hungry,
Emaciated.
They dwell in their filth,
their bodies craving nourishment.
Young,
Weak.
Too little to carry a gun, to withstand the cruelties of war.
So they blow the whistles, they stand at the front of the line
Shaking,
Trembling.
Meeting death within moments.
They blow the whistles.