Dawn rises, sullenly,
Almost reluctantly.
Deep within the scarred landscape,
Stand row after row
Of khaki clad boys,
Faces white with fear,
Bowels empty,
Prayers uttered.
At seven thirty
Screaming whistles
Pierce the morning air.
Boys climb
Into the morning light,
Greeted by swarms
Of lead,
Twenty thousand dead before the day expires.
These boys,
On either side,
Killed not from hatred,
They had never met.
They killed not from duty,
They died not from sacrifice.
They were pawns,
Of squabbling Royal families.
Today,
One hundred years later,
European politicians
Squabble once again,
I wonder if their lies,
Will, once more result,
In dead eyes staring up
At foreign skies?
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
