• Guns drawn,
    Thousands slain

    The few that survive,
    Lie in pain

    Not only were they shot,
    Not only will they die

    But the ones they love
    Never said their last goodbye

    They die in a puddle
    Of their blood

    Their faces and clothes,
    Covered with mud

    Nobody acknowledges
    That they are lying there

    Until the war is over,
    And the sweet smell of victory,
    Lingers in the air