Like living corpses onwards we trudged, <br />Coughing and cursing we went, <br />Longing for the bases walls, <br />Longing for the end of war, <br />Men marched in slumbers, <br />Blood-shod feet, <br />Blind now to destruction, <br />Deaf now to the noise of rank despair, <br />A man called out, <br />And in the hurried movements of one not long from death, <br />We fitted on our flimsy masks, <br />But still I heard a yelling, <br />And through the mist I saw my friend, <br />Stumbling, yelling, dying, <br />Dying like a guttering flame, <br />Caught in a winds harsh breeze, <br />Taking my hand he died, <br />And in my arms he took one last breath, <br />If in some lucid dream, <br />You too should walk behind deaths wagon, <br />And hear it's rasping sound, <br />See it's mask on ones own friend, <br />You would not talk of distant glory, <br />Would not speak of what is right, <br />You would not tell your children, <br />That for ones country, <br />Death is sweet, and pure.<br /><br />Holly Heron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-adaption-of-dulce-et-decorum-est/
