A sadness so deep cuts trenches across the heart
Like soldiers going over the top to do their part
Falling as though wheat was being harvested
Like leaves in puddles of mud blood and gore
A gladness at escaping the “greatness” of war
Widows and orphans lack the rejoicing
When their heroes visit them no more
They wait eagerly in case the news was too poor
“Someone’s made a mistake – he’s not dead, 
I’ve heard him”.

Children huddle around the cooling fire and dream
Of fields with daddy as a kite skipped over streams
Of sailing matchstick yachts in puddles of rain
Of being scolded by him never to do it again.
But children’s play doesn’t compare when the fires rage
Tanks bellow their death gifts like dragons of a bygone age
Machine guns cackle metal chards into soft flesh
Where is the honour the fields of battle are enmeshed
With cries of agony, crying dying the odour of hell.

A sadness creeps in under the ribs nestles within
For when death rips your stomach the devil is let in
Searching for the remains of feeling and loving
Pawing at your memories trying to inject the poison
Widows live with a poverty of company and care
They see the world has shrunk and don’t even dare
To contemplate a time of laughter and gaiety
“Someone’s shot my beloved – so save a bullet for me”.