Secretious morn held aftly the solemn souls that quickened to their lead laden posts,
adorned with the half-absent bodies of their friends.
Cold, crisp air, moistened by the early hours dew, seeped past each soldiers ear,
harking the silence of death’s sweeping scythe.
Rounds upon rounds of coiled wire, nashed with shredding teeth,
encircled the men’s position.
Rounds upon rounds of artillery shells arching over head and snubbing the others out,
like God’s own thumb rinsed them from the Earth.
Rounds upon rounds of men hatefully embracing mother nature’s grimy bosom
of mud and metal and blood.
Thirsting were the men, drowning were them,
those that prayed for a Sunday’s requiem.
Faceless were the men that fell back,
no more that they could do.
As they fell, face first, into her earth,
they paid their last breath, their last beat, their last birth.
Red vibrant maidens arose from their rotting forms,
whistling in the Summer wind for better days.
For a Sunday’s Requiem.