Poem By Steve Armstrong
Their screams of pain echo in my ears,
from the left of me, from the right, straight in front of me.
There is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide,
I cannot wake, for this is not a dream,
this is war. This is very real.
The bullets whizz overhead, as I am deep in the trench,
the sickly sweet smell of blood is all around,
for, the blood is all around, it is where we walk,
it is where we sleep, it is where we fight.
I feel more tense now, though i could not have imagined it,
Soon, I am told, I will be 'going over the top'
Going to sort the Gerry's, the Hun's, the enemy.
'Dont worry, boy' they tell me. We're going to win.
How can they be so sure i ask myself?
18 and sent to my empty, nameless grave
In war, there is only one winner.