Blood,
On the fields it covered mud,
Death stank rotten through No-Man’s Land,
Glistening pools deadly quicksand.

Trenches, wet and cold,
To the soldiers – none very old,
The icy, slippery realm of gloom,
Would soon become their tomb.

The fate of bullets met many men,
All would be silent: and then!
Deafening rifle shots would follow,
And when it was over all would feel hollow.

Chlorine was used to kill many,
Mustard gas would kill any,
Random deaths by poisoned breath on both sides,
For innocent souls nowhere to hide.

Why did none flee? Why did none run?
Pounded by death from gas and gun,
Parted from kin, country, home,
Never in their world again to roam.

Charges, once strated, were rapidly done,
Blades of bayonets, glistening in the sun,
Spelled death for the soldiers who charged,
Only then they learned that the glory of war had been forged.

They started to miss their brothers,
Wives, fathers, sisters, mothers
Would they have glory, honour, fame?
If nobody was left remembering their name?

Inevitably most would die,
Bullet wounds through the chest, neck and eye,
Only then would they finally be free from pain,
Never to reunite with their families again.