I. Upon the Field Returned

From Flanders' mud we come with limping tread,
Our youth all spent on blood-drenched, foreign plains;
With hollow eyes we count the silent dead,
And dream in vain to cleanse these crimson stains.
The songs they sang of glory proved but lies—
A soldier’s crown is forged of rot and flies.
What laurels bloom from shattered bones and cries,
When gas and wire blot out the very skies?

We marched for king, for country, honor, pride,
Yet found no music 'neath the cannon's roar;
Where once stood friends, now only ghosts abide,
Their laughter trapped in muck forevermore.
And we, the saved, bear guilt no prayer can lift—
Survivors' breath, a bitter, hollow gift.

II. The Home Unseen

They cheered us once with ribbons, bands, and wine,
When first we strode in coats all crisp and clean;
But now we wear a face they shun, malign,
Too full of what we've seen to be serene.
Our dreams still scream with shells and comrades torn,
Their voices drowned beneath the storm of hate;
No hero's welcome greets the scarred, war-worn—
Just silent stares, or worse, the gaze of fate.

For those who never saw the trench's throat
Know not the filth that clings to soul and skin;
They preach of valor from their cushioned moat,
While we choke back the horror, deep within.
There is no grace in how the brave men fell—
Their final bed, a trench; their heaven, hell.

III. To Dust, Not Fame

Oft have they penned our tale with noble ink,
And carved our names in marbled, speechless stone;
But ink and stone know not the stench, the stink
Of blackened blood and men who died alone.
Tell not of honor to the shattered limb,
Nor whisper pride to eyes that weep in dark;
What wreath redeems the soul grown cold and grim,
What anthem heals the dead beneath the mark?
If glory lives, it lives not on that field
Where rats feast first and mercy dares not tread.
The truth of war no parchment ever sealed—
It moans beneath the earth, with all the dead.
We few who limp from horror’s cursed domain
Are left to mourn, and never march again.

Finis.

Let not the drum beat proud for war’s cruel name;
Its music ends in silence, rot, and shame.