The rain beats down on his helmet,
Craters turned into pools of brown and burgundy.
Distant artillery shrieks,
A barbaric war song.
Questions buzz around his mind,
Why is he there,
When does it end,
Where are the birds.
No creatures roam no-mans land,
Feared by the cries of young heroes.
Why do the young fight battles,
Instigated by the old,
While the bodies grow cold,
Their lives less precious than gold,
For those who are big and bold,
Behind their desks, in the mansions of old.
The mould grows freely on the wood,
That shelters the holy corpses that should,
Be remembered for the heroes they would,
Have been if only they weren't killed in cold blood.
Sing a song for the unsung heroes of war.
The rain beats down on his helmet,
Thunder crashes around him,
Disguising the gunshot.
Only the dead see the end of war.