Vast are the fields of the dead
Romanced into their graves
With promises of glory
That the next vaunted victory
Would secure a place under Heaven’s vaulted roof
Honour-bound to fight
The good fight in far fields
Where War reaps lives
As it scythes through a generation
And their only respite lies in the ground
Ranked and filed
Singular names and fates forgotten
No longer warmed by the embrace of mothers
But banded as brothers and led away
Clutched in the grave chilled grasp of Death’s right hand