Aug 2018
Truer words were never spoken when a blind man said to me, I lost my sight in a foreign land for my country to be free.
He said he smelled the devils breath in bombed out factories and on the crest of every gust the gas that burned the trees.
Cold and sick and starving thin he fought for what he knew, for the liberty of masses and the dignity of few.
“In trenches drenched with blood and sweat, water, wind and pain, we stood full ankle deep in mud and played the devils game.”
Boys were turned to hardened men, the devil made the rounds,
Screaming souls in search of limbs, his savage knew no bounds.
But Old Nick was caught counting, his eggs before they hatched, for all his pride and vanity was soundly over matched.
No gas or bullet, blade or shell can stop the truth of time,
A free man’s thirst to fight for life, his gift from the divine,
Cannot be quenched by gold or pride or hollow victory,
Free men fight with the might of ten bound by tyranny.
But from his empty blackened pits where vision once called home he shed a tear and whispered “our liberty has gone.”
He said he heard a fellow speak while resting on his bed, this young man spoke of our brave troops, but pride was all but dead.
The souls that keep a nation warm and Old Nick from the door he soiled there name and trampled on the pride that was before.
He took for granted words and speech , he used with such prowess,
Given to him by the cry of many, dying for the rest.
And in his hollow verbiage entwined with falsity,
He offered solace to the devil, he invites misery.
Who could call the race and guess the tale of time, who knew that drunk on freedom we’d turn on the divine.
I asked him in the silence of what he thought the times,
He said before he drifted off “I’ll tell you one last time.”
“Brave boys once were turned to men in the blinking of an eye,
Question they did not, ready, they stood to die.
They did it for their homes, their families and fields against tyranny and ******* never, would they yield.
Young men fret today about the colour of their shoes,
Their pride is but a shadow, their virtue hollow through. If this is all that keeps us from the devil then it’s true, I fear for every soul, for the lives of me and you.”
He said he smelled the devils breath in bombed out factories and on the crest of every gust the gas that burned the trees.
Cold and sick and starving thin he fought for what he knew, for the liberty of masses and the dignity of few.
“In trenches drenched with blood and sweat, water, wind and pain, we stood full ankle deep in mud and played the devils game.”
Boys were turned to hardened men, the devil made the rounds,
Screaming souls in search of limbs, his savage knew no bounds.
But Old Nick was caught counting, his eggs before they hatched, for all his pride and vanity was soundly over matched.
No gas or bullet, blade or shell can stop the truth of time,
A free man’s thirst to fight for life, his gift from the divine,
Cannot be quenched by gold or pride or hollow victory,
Free men fight with the might of ten bound by tyranny.
But from his empty blackened pits where vision once called home he shed a tear and whispered “our liberty has gone.”
He said he heard a fellow speak while resting on his bed, this young man spoke of our brave troops, but pride was all but dead.
The souls that keep a nation warm and Old Nick from the door he soiled there name and trampled on the pride that was before.
He took for granted words and speech , he used with such prowess,
Given to him by the cry of many, dying for the rest.
And in his hollow verbiage entwined with falsity,
He offered solace to the devil, he invites misery.
Who could call the race and guess the tale of time, who knew that drunk on freedom we’d turn on the divine.
I asked him in the silence of what he thought the times,
He said before he drifted off “I’ll tell you one last time.”
“Brave boys once were turned to men in the blinking of an eye,
Question they did not, ready, they stood to die.
They did it for their homes, their families and fields against tyranny and ******* never, would they yield.
Young men fret today about the colour of their shoes,
Their pride is but a shadow, their virtue hollow through. If this is all that keeps us from the devil then it’s true, I fear for every soul, for the lives of me and you.”
