Where the corpses lay,
No signs of life, just death,
Stealing a life, biggest theft,
Bodies and limbs in vast array,
Drawing on their last breath.

Where the lead had been cast,
Nothing but rotting flesh,
Some of it quite fresh,
Now their life; a thing of the past,
Where blood and bullets mesh.

War is a tragic hell,
Death, decay and injuries everywhere,
And for some all that is left is hair,
But who can really tell?
For war is not fought with care.