These fields were once nice places,
Today just a quagmire of mud,
Devoid of all their graces,
Sodden with youths own life blood.
For the glory of country, King and God,
Marching forward into strife,
A generation lies neath the sod,
Lost to mother, children and wife.
Oh, the glory of war,
Bringing despair and pain,
Filled with gore,
Remember and let it not happen again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem