In the early light of morning's grace, When dawn breaks on the battle's face, A symphony of war drums beat, As souls march forth with weary feet.

In fields where courage clashes steel, Where pain and sorrow fiercely kneel, There blooms a tale of strife and woe, Where morning's tears like rivers flow.

Yet midst the chaos and despair, A golden mystic in the air, Whispers secrets to the brave, Of hope beyond a bloodied grave.

The sun ascends with hues of red, A canvas by the angels spread, Upon the sky, a story weaves, Of how a wounded heart believes.

In trenches deep and shadows wide, Where dreams and innocence collide, There burns a fire, fierce and bright, Igniting spirits for the fight.

As morning fades, the evening calls, And in the silence, darkness falls, But in the hearts that once knew war, A revelation they explore.

The mystic gold of setting suns, Reveals the battles finally won, Not in the clash of sword on shield, But in the love that will not yield.

Through sacrifice and endless pain, A golden truth begins to reign, That war, no matter how it starts, Can’t shackle hopeful, loving hearts.

So let the evening's light descend, Upon the wounds that will soon mend, For in the dark, a truth takes flight, That love can conquer endless night.

In mystic silver and revelations deep, The weary souls, their vigils keep, And find in evening’s soft embrace, A world reborn, a bronze grace.