Sodden fields beneath their feet,
Trodden grass, where these beggars sleep,
Closed are the dreams of unmarked graves,
Where children played their masters games.

Wooden sticks, sound affects, hiding amongst the trees,
Falling down, deafening sound, bodies all around,
Did each one die for his own dugout plot,
Is that his reward, is that all he’s got.

Where are the gifts bequeathed by death,
In posthumous salutations, or stars on epaulette,
From machine-gun fodder on the beaches of Tobruk,
To the mud-lice eaten bodies, on the men of Kokoda track.

We are naught but conspicuous vagrants,
Standing in the vestibule of His creations,
While changing innocence for a fools gold,
You allowed a mother alone to grow old.

They’re now at Rest in the halls of Valhalla,
Allowing dreams awaken the lights of Aurora,
Reckless angers of changing moments,
Let no more die by the order of Governments.

adthomas