Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface
                                                        the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
                                                      our intestines.....

                                         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.....

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 our 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


            these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
                                          

                                               the illusion of life and the irony of war.....