Author’s Note: My Muse and I were reading several accounts of life in the trenches around Avdiivka – could have been the Somme or Verdun a little more than a hundred years ago…
– Arrias
Very Wrong
The trenches are long and dark and dank,
Always hot or always cold,
The men climb out and go on patrol,
And come back tired and numb and old.
Day after day they fight the foe,
Tactics and weapons the same,
It may look different from the capitals,
But in the trenches it’s the same game.
The casualties continue to mount,
It’s a never-ending grind,
This war it seems may never end,
The rest of the world seems not to mind.
The leaders all have their reasons,
They can tell you why,
Why the men must keep fighting,
But the leaders don’t have to die.
Are they fighting for their freedom?
If so, men can take the hurt.
But is that really what they do?
Or do they fight just for a piece of dirt?
Prime Ministers and Presidents
Use such beautiful words to inspire,
But the soldiers are left to fight,
And in the mud and cold expire.
In the capitals the leaders
In soft, warms bed at night sleep,
But in the trenches sleep the grunts,
Where the mud’s six inches deep.
They say the war is winnable,
And both capitals say “Be Strong!”
But in the trenches this they know:
At least one side is very wrong.
Copyright 2023 Arrias
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