Crimean War

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.

The End

68 comments about this poem Feed