To Those We Left Behind

Happy we pals of battalions from villages born of love And sweet tender mercies, unlike here entrenched With the foe. Grey mists on the horizon, silhouetted hove Of sallow composition; subdued and drenched. Between us, in 'no man's land' a barren waste Of limbs stacked high, orchestrating the way Of death, foreshadowing yet even still the taste To come, and soon; at the break of day. Our friends, fathers, uncles and brothers In arms; cleaving the ground of crimson red Left on the battle scarred plains, with their mother's Voices ringing out, as bells that toll the dead. Then slowly faint whispers are heard amidst the grave Of brown and grey. "Is that you John!Bill! Fred?" "Is that you Hans!Jurgen!Emil!"? You the brave Who fell, still living amongst the dead. The shroud of death that covers distempered cries Now lifting as both find their heroes of cause. And naked transgression remains; signature of lies And deceit; like whores showing no remorse.