I am the dirt below their feet,
I am silent and still at the sound of defeat,
Those poor fellas, oh their sorrow,
Never sure if they’ll meet tomorrow.

I am the dirt the bricks collapse to,
The mortar they’ll use to build homes- new,
But the cases are scattered, everywhere,
From vicious bombs, fallen from the air.

I am the dirt stricken by collapsing men,
Impaled by bullets, the life in their eyes- then,
Seemingly fading; you see the hope drain,
The reality of their fate more than numbs the pain.

I am the dirt for trenches dug,
Where cold and hungry soldiers just need a hug,
The pain, the hurt, the tears from within,
Hope of returning home is wearing thin.

I am the dirt the tears fall to,
They’re not so tough away from their crew,
Letters from daughters, wives alike,
Piercing the chest- it’s the sharpest spike.

I am the dirt, the grit of war,
Fixed in the memory- I’ll be here forever more,
Familiar still, when they’re old and grey,
When you go to war, you’re there to stay.