Their soaky feet were stuck in army boots with sad faces.
Homesickness behind muddy trenches and sand bags.
Sons of rich patrons groaned in vicious famine.
How cheap can a soldier lose a life for a lack of bread and milk.
Frost acting swiftly towards finger tips.
Their worn out letters were in pain, tears and regrets.
How they missed their childhood lives than dying in a senseless battle.
Somme has never been the same again, with so much history of blood shed.
Is it now a monument or a field of rusty amunition with thousands of warsman underneath?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem