The men stand in silence in the trench,
Smoke lingering like death’s opium,
Morbid serenity and souls gone numb;
They pay no heed to the vile stench.
Their rifles are sticks in their hands,
Useless ornaments for little boys’ wars
Yet they check and inspect them; menial chores
To steady themselves for the fight at hand.
The whistle blows and they ascend,
Charging up and out with primordial screams.
The machine guns howl and rip apart flesh
Yet their souls have no fear for bullets nor bombs.
Cigarettes and dreams are all that is left
When the ghosts among men go wandering home.
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