As The Crow Flies (a war poem)

Men stand together in a crowd.

Fine specimens, strong, fast, handsome.

All are good athletes, muscular, fit.

All have wives and children somewhere.

Mothers and fathers.

Brothers and sisters.

Aunts, uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers.

Best friends they’d grown up with.

Men who would take a bullet for each other.

Friends, who’d joined up together.

Excited, young, innocent, naive.

 

Alive.

 

Now they line up to die.

 

Part 2

The men of earlier today,

The strong men, the friends,

Lie dead in the quagmire they call

No Man’s Land.

Half buried in the mud,

Lying on top of each other.

They grew up together, lived together,

Laughed together, joined up together.

 

Died together.

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