Within The Trench Of Death Poem by Amy Stuart

Walking trough the trench of death, how many fine man?
How many deaths?
One by one they run, As if its okay, Laughing, smiling, joking,
Because they must to survive.

Everyday a possible end.
As pion's they fall in this cruel game.
They don’t fight there own war.

They are friends, family, If only for a second it still matters.
But it still counts, not your usual friendship.
Do you mind, stuck in the same misery?
These are my brothers.

The deafening sound of bombs and bullets.
No second of peace, in these watery graves.
In the cold night, In the hot sun.
This is were I live, at least for now.

The enemy understands, They are the same, And they Will not rest.
For they expect the same courage of there enemies.

As I, far from as brave, Walk trough these paths, In witch so many heroes died.
I wonder who remembers?
I look through the rabbit hole, and await the most powerful question of all.
Why?

It doesn’t show, they don’t whisper it in my ears.
For they know why, they fought brave for one thing.
Not for there country as we all think.
They fought for there sons, their daughters, so they could live the life they gave away.
They fought for mothers, for brothers, for those they love,
making sure that no dropp of blood goes wasted.

So their beloved could be free in a country, walking trough Belgium.
In the Flanders fields they lived and laughed, there were the poppy’s grow on the bodies of death soldiers.
We whisper to them thank you.