It Carries On. Poem by willow moon pearce

Although much has been written
About the aftermath of battle
My time for the last four years has been a trial
And a terrible combination of comments and compassion

All my writings have been about the 1st and 2nd world wars
All have told of the terrible silence
The smell of cordite
And the smell of death.

The battlefield always seems to be scattered with paper
From photo's of loved ones
And letters pulled from khaki pockets
In their last agonies
Was it comfort they sought? or desperation.
When the soldier is young, invincibility
Reigns amongst youth.

And after the battle appear the looters
Ripping pockets and packs, discarding treasures
From the twisted and wide eyed
Children of the day
We have learnt nothing about war except
The tradgedy, tears and unconsoluble hurt.