That we will never rise above the mire,
The grim and festering fields of fire,
The smoke, the noise, the shrieks that rend the air,
From men we've sent across the mud to dare
The foe to take their lives amongst the wire,
A ceaseless flow of death that will not tire
Until we have no more, or come to care?
Yet if we found the means to end this game
To fix this dreary picture in a frame,
To paint it as a scene of love and bliss
Instead of blood and hate, would we think this
A better way to live our lives, behave?
(I posted the above poem a few years ago. It seems appropriate to give it another airing today.)