Happy we ‘pals’ of battalions, from villages born of love
And sweet tender mercies; unlike here, entrenched
With the foe, grey mists on the horizons, silhouetted hove
Of sallow composition; subdued and drenched.

Between us in ‘no mans’ land’, a barren waste
Of limbs stacked high, orchestrating the way
Of death; foreshadowing yet even still the taste
To come, and soon; at the break of day.

Our friends, our fathers, uncles and brothers
In arms; cleaving the ground of crimson red
Left on the battle scarred plains, with their mothers
Voices ringing out; as bells that toll the dead.

Then slowly, faint whispers are heard amidst the grave
Of brown and grey; ‘ Is that you John! Bill! Fred?
Is that you ‘ Jurgen! Rommel! Hans? You the brave
Who fell, still living amongst the dead.

The shroud of death that covers distempered cries
Now lifting as both find their ‘ heroes of cause’.
And naked transgression remains; signature of lies
And deceit like whores, showing no remorse.