The Face of War
The stories, bulged with laugh and boast,
Repressed the dread of shadow’s ghost.
The smell of bodies burnt like toast
They likely will recall the most.
There’s little glory in a war
And how they dare to keep the score
Of bodies where the bullets tore
The loyalty they proudly wore.
The smell of urine soaking through;
The snot and spittle adding to
The fear, and yet they always knew
The killing’s what they’re trained to do.
The enemy is now in sight;
The trembling soldier knows his might.
The finger must squeeze slow and tight;
The haunting question – “Is it right”?
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