Diary of a Soldier - World War 1

Surrounded by mud our feet make love to the surface the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug our intestines and the blankets cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present in the form of gangrene, the rats make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone then comes the symphony of artillery the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks the mighty foot soldiers, and the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas the trenches become our unwanted love and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die" is the common the battle cry sung upon us constantly by our commanders but on the contrary these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us the illusion of life and the irony of war.....