Alone on fields all churned to mud,
Shells the only stars above my head,
All companions gone,
All friends lost to oblivion,
I believe them now:
“You’d be better off dead.”
Such agony shouldn’t thrive on dreams,
Such pain shouldn’t be whispered by name,
“War is glorious,
It’s all the past;
There’ll be homecoming fuss;”
At least, if you’re not slain.
If death will not claim me now,
Then sickness in the times to come;
Sickness of the flesh and mind;
The flowers drag me to my cell,
Who appeals to the passing help?
Oh! Certainly not me.