War is called;
sons taken, from mothers' arms;
boarding a ship to no man's land;
one last glimpse of home, of safety.
Whether son, brother or husband makes no difference;
To the bullets, that cause them to drop like flies, unceremoniously,
For What?
That only the generals know, not the men fighting;
not the men living, dying in the trenches
waiting for the call to charge, to face the wall of soldiers.
Screaming out their last breath,
scarce heard amongst the drone, of the mass, of dying.
Until all that is left, of those lives wasted for a foot of land,
are their bodies, that may or may not be returned,
to their grieving families
