English poem, for the trenches
Respect goes out for all the soldiers from
WW1
Cycle
The smell of blood lingers all around,
the spur of guns, the only sound.
We travel into no man's land,
A mix of soft mud, and quick sand.
A rat scuttles swiftly as we continue to fire,
To walk across the land is no man's desire.
Even though the mission was utterly futile,
They carried on shooting, all the while.
We run across hell on earth,
fighting across the German terf.
I fall in the mud, shot in the arm.
They drag me to their camp, with no polite charm.
They tie me up, beat me, torture me.
My vision turns to black, then I can't see.
Wh