Mud like superglue, makes battle grim,
mountains of slimed clothes, never clean,
boots feel like leaden weights
and the humble sandwich tastes like dirt.
The sweet face of a friend sinks down,
leaving the grief to to fight and show
that this hell is more than enough,
and bitterness bloats the corpse.
Precious moments in the lull to look,
birds have flown, they’ve more sense,
the sun dimmed by the bloody gore
and clouds unwelcome pour more mud.
Soon, too soon, they’ll all be gone,
and their death song forgotten,
all that will be left is the tragic
cry of the bereft childless mother.
We grow old in ancient lore
but never learn to abandon war.