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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required World War 1 The Sergeant The rose cannot compete with the sweet smell of death, only her image can forgive. Laid upon the silence of another boys coffin, which hides this journey in life. Your shame will not bring him back. So win your war on kitchen table for old men know best, glory is for you who drink to them. Your lads are entrusted to fight an old man’s dream, that age has altered with lies. Inspire them with your bravado, “the machine gun you can take”. But bullets give no warning, shells care not for heroes and pain will not spare them. I who should have died long ago will take your lads over the top. To meet this vision of glory and perhaps some of them will share with me the victory of living for one more day. For victory is the crows feast, defeat will always find another battle. Life is to obey another order, and time is the torment of mind Which counts the heart beats to the next ordeal. This war is in my veins pouring blood over my soul, death will be a blessing to me. To forget what I have seen to forget this madness in life. I who greet the trains of hope. Greet the innocent, to take its place upon this cross, and I will give them a lonely smile for that is all that is left of me. These faces of oblivion who come with laughter, soon cower before the sounds of war. Their throats now choked with the dry mouth of fear. And I shall not dare too close to this bloom of spring, for my memory is full of ghosts. We shall share a cigarette politely sanitize our existence with stories from home. Quietly taking some comfort from the guns now gorging on German blood. For I wish not to see them alive and “ laddie” always remembers, do not let them see your fear. The cold dew of dawn is growing anxious It beading anoints my head for it is the only thing that is pure in my life. The first rays of light eat into my eyes revealing the man. A gaunt child locked out of God’s grace, for fear belongs to us all. The mark of death dances one more time In the steam of morning breathe hoping for that final kiss, and I shiver before its presence. Though these boys that I take can never know. That just beyond their gaze lies the guns that have taken the voices before them. The sound of the whistle Calls once again tomorrow the faces will change and their passing will be a journey into my memory. A generation cut down in sacrifice, a rose for every victim. But the cold white marble cannot hide the stories for every family has one. Church bells ring your victory of widows who lost their men and of this flower of summer, cut down from mother’s lap. Leave the silent streets to the swallows to carry their voices back to a time of peace. For time has left us a faded photograph Of Granddads journey done Who went to sleep long ago. Time in her mercy took his memory, to join the untold stories Of the boys we never knew. All lost in Flanders field but still guarded jealously by the swallows who fly free over the peace that you gave to me. .
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