When poets go to war
'When poets go to war' by Bill Bingham
When poets go to war, they tell a dreadful tale,
They tell of crucifixion, nail on bloody nail.
They tell the tale of Cain again, slaughtering his brother.
They tell of orphaned children, and broken-hearted mother.
They curse the god who made them, and brought them to this field,
They curse the red-nosed generals, who told them not to yield.
They form in Bands of Brothers, each country has its own.
In age they meet with enemies, amongst the whited stone.
They read the lists of fallen, and ask the question, ‘Why?’
They ponder long and weary, ‘Dear God, tell me why?’
The clouds roll by unnoticed, the birds sing in the trees,
The grass grows over battlefields, and graves that no-one sees.
What madness has engulfed us? What purpose here is served?
What god has been placated, by brave and youthful dead?
When shall mankind awaken, to what the gods decree?
But ancient gods are silenced, by minds that are set free.
No medals, thank you captain, no folded flag for me,
You’ve sent me to the killing fields of broken, blackened, tree.
My life no more has meaning, the bugle calls no more,
Its rasping notes deceived me, on that far-distant shore.
Flags and banners flutter, young men dream their dreams,
Of glory death and honour, and politician’s schemes.
But truth will not be altered, no matter what the cost,
When we lay down the sword and shield, Jordan will be crossed.
