The sun shine scorns on the land which we are
No inch is not tainted with the stench of death
We have left our home, and traveled afar
To only now embrace our final breath

The hill of dead pile up, more and more
Some of the dead being as young as eighteen
No happiness that the future might store
Could be worth the price of blood we’ve seen

Like animals, are purpose is to die
Being canon fodder is our fate from birth
Happier is one who never questions why
One in ignorance, believing their worth

Next war for our sons, as they too must pall
Would be much better to not be born at all!