We trudge across the fields,

Amidst flowers coloured blood red;

The tired limp behind us,

The banner goes ahead.

 

The drums beat out of time,

The drummers: Tired and forlorn.

And our marching banner,

Is battered, bruised and torn.

 

We hear horns in the distance,

They call us all to order.

Yet we trudge on behind the banner,

Innocent lambs to the slaughter.

 

 

 

 

Shots ring round like opera,

Flares waltz across the air.

There dancing beauty is deadly,

As we stop and gaze and stare.

 

Weapons of war lie forgotten,

Alone beside the road.

We march with their empty footsteps,

Along the path they strode.

 

A River runs beside us,

A rippling deathly red.

At the sides of its banks,

The weapons rest their heads.

 

My eyes begin to burn,

With the terror they have seen.

My hands are coloured, a blood red;

I cannot wash them clean.

 

 

 

Yet we cannot stop,

I feel bullets round my waist.

I grit my teeth, I must push on;

Break the horizon, post haste!

 

I am haunted by my memories,

Stalked like a ghost.

Running, ringing through my head,

Miming the Last Post.

 

We trudge across the fields,

Amidst flowers coloured blood red;

The lame limp behind us,

But the banner goes ahead.

 

I have no friends around me,

All of them are dead.

I try to stop my onslaught

But the banner goes ahead...

 

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