When I answered the bugle's call I was just a lad
My father gave his nod so as an ANZAC I was glad
Through the battles my war was not weathered well
When I returned to home my face reflected the hell
There were mates who we left on the field
As we fought for one another refusing to yield
But there is always a price to pay
In the mud blood and sacrifice that doesn't go away
So when I left those fatal shores
Wanting Home and my family evermore
I was off the ship at Outer Harbour with my father standing there
And for fifteen minutes he didn't recognise my stare.
© Paul Warren Poetry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So it is always like that. We go to war to kill people who we do not know. We come back full of memories of death and killing, a thing that would not be proud of. Nice piece of poem.