Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface

the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
our intestines and the blankets
cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses

we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered

the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
in the form of gangrene, the rats
make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten
flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone

then comes the symphony of artillery
the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
the mighty foot soldiers, and
the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas

the trenches become our unwanted love
and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us
constantly by our commanders

but on the contrary
these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
the illusion of life and the irony of war.....