'the Somme 1916'
I'm scribbling in incessent rain
and mud has turned to slush.
The stench of death is all about
and god's deserted us.
Last night I saw a young lad die,
he cried his life away.
I felt so bloody helpless -
Will it be me today?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem