He clambered up onto the trenches
Amidst the gunshot and explosions,
Hankering for the comfort of his good wife’s embrace.
The bitter rain cried down from the broken sky
And soaked his bloodstained jacket
With sulphurous tears of terror.
As he forged onwards,
Knee high in mud,
Towards enemy lines,
His mind was awash with
Hope of being reunited with
Those he loved more than life itself,
Yet hope began fading fast
When the wicked shell struck him
In the chest.
Pain he’d never known before
Took over his rational thinking,
And his dying breath was spent calling for his family
Who were thousands of miles back home,
Awaiting his return.
There is no glory in war,
No war can be great.
Each death, no more than a number
To those in power.
Why must this be the way?