Passchendale: 3rd Battle of Ypres, 1916

Even the dead reject this blasted earth. The ground, such as it is, Is freshly Antidiluvean, The corpses swim within its tumbled, heaving masses Blood and mud the mortar Holding the chaos together. The sun is weak, Ashamed to break the haze To bring to light the obscenities transpiring here. The whistles blow The troglodytes emerge From their respective holes, Staggering towards one another Through watery craters Over the mincemeat of comrades To add themselves to the swimming sacrifice Constantly on offer To the insatiable, sole diety of this place, The Mud-God, Futility. They are men no more, Those who struggle 'neath The leaden skies The wan sun Of the sodden moonscape That is Passchendale. They are only raging beasts Trading pain for pain, All trace of cause or reason Lost in the maelstrom of their collective misery - The only escape Is to slay and to be slain; To join the bitter shades Ascending with the fog and smoke Through the wall of cloud above, To vanish into the icy deeps Among the far, impassive stars.