Another friend given to death,
Another gun fired,
Once more man willing to die,
He lay down tired.

The constant roar of tanks,
The hum of curses and shouts,
Dead bodies scattered,
Piled up in mounts.

Trenches filled with maggots,
Letters never sent,
Torn pictures of loved ones,
Blood stained and bent.

The grass is painted with blood,
A brutal masterpiece,
Men, gone. Gas shells,
All trying to find peace.

By Evie Apthorp