A soldier's poem

The smell of rotting carcasses never leaves me,
Even in sleep the stench burns my nose,
But as time goes on you grow used to it,
The smell of death becomes home.
If I could fly away I would,
To a place untouched by war,
A place where death does not exist,
Where you can forget all you’ve seen before.
“Over before Christmas,” they said,
“Over before it begins,”
And yet three years on we’re still at war,
Still fighting for this win.
“What are we fighting for?” we ask,
Questioning motives for the fight,
Still on we go, and on we march,
Throughout the days and nights.
New men come to join our troops,
Novices at this game,
Still giddy with young schoolboy thoughts,
Searching for wartime fame.
They peer over the parapet,
And look out at no-man’s land,
The enemies aim their guns and fire;
Red blood upon on filthy sand.
Even though death haunts our lives,
Still we march on in pain,
Our feet cold, bruised and cut;
The trench foot makes us lame.
This war we fight is pointless,
We fight to no avail,
But still we carry on in fight,
We do not want to fail.
I hope someday people look back,
And shiver with disgust,
This war may stop all future wars,
But for now, fight on we must.