Six thousand soldiers, we march through the night
cold winds and rain, keeping the next man in sight
hitting the wire, shells bursting red glare
praying to God that I’m going to make it there
charge for the tree line, friends falling away
digging a mud hole, will this be my grave
screams all around me, dare I look to see who
sergeant is calling, telling us to keep true
firing ahead as I run so afraid,
time has stopped ticking as I fall with great pain
slow is the battle as I drift far away
buddy beside me saying you'll be okay
waiting for medics, to carry me away
only two hundred soldiers made it up there this day.
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Author Notes
In a quiet corner of a French field lies the remains of over 6000 World War 1 Soldiers, stripped of their identity tags these mass graves are evidence of a very little documented slaughter. The soldier?s deeds gone, forgotten, they fell in their thousands - now nine decades after the First World War the bodies of hundreds of British and Australian war dead are to be recovered from a mass grave in northern France. This poem is for them the forgotten soldiers of World War 1.
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