A heart beats like a drum,
Cold hands clench an even colder rifle,
Blood-shod feet trudge through the dirt,
Wide eyes search frantically,
But still he marches on.

The whistle of shells fall on deaf ears,
The constant stutter of rifles,
The monotonous cry of injured soldiers,
But still he marches on.

Ebbing light gives way to darkness,
Bodies lay strewn across the wasteland,
Empty shell casings litter the ground like specks of gold,
But still he marches on.