The smells, and the sounds
and the unfriendly crowds
The children who bustled
and gathered around

And the news of a girlfriend
a husband, or son
And the man on the roof
and the glare of the sun.

When the desert is quiet
and the Helmand runs still
And a sniper awaits you
beyond the next hill.

And the poppies were drops
of the blood from the cross
And a mother would weep
for the child she had lost…

When the horses would charge
And the drummer-boys play
And the smoke filled the scene
of the carnage that day.

And the mud in the trenches
The men on the wire
And the thirst in your throat
That would burn like a fire…