A Winter’s day,
The corner of some foreign field,
mist rolls like the waves
upon some haunted sea,
a sea of red that stretches far unto
the horizon.
Beneath it,
lurking in the muddy depths
rusting wire curls about lonesome bones,
‘neath fathoms of shattered lead.
I stand and gaze into the mists,
somewhere a Bugler calls,
a Siren song for Spectres marching still
yet long gone.
In waking dreams I tremble,
before armies of the dead,
in tattered green they march,
through hails of boiling lead,
in tattered green and red they fall
in choking fumes they reel,
falling to the phantom blasts,
as Phosphor glows above.
In waking dreams I see them still,
they march through history,
as angels break the seventh seal,
the razor wire unwound,
platoons of ghosts,
now so unreal the call to arms will sound.
In waking dreams, I see them still
lost souls in black and white,
young men lost in their thousands,
in the cause of what was right.
I see them still,
lost but
not forgotten,
The spectres march from
hell to hell
‘neath fields of rolling red.