My soul is dark and lonely,
And I have a sullen mind.
My lungs are dry with chalk,
The charcoal of the land.

My clothes are weeping dry,
And I have but one last breath,
My arms are weak with fatigue,
Yet steady is my hand.

My eyes stay strong with virtue,
And my conscience rings of peace,
My blood boils with anger,
At the countenance of creed.

My life flashes by me,
And I remember not,
My happiness or my love
But the wars I have fought.

My legs give way to fate,
And my finger fires the gun,
My quarry falls upon me,
Somebody’s teenage son.

My head hits the ground
And I hear a soft crack,
My eyes whiten, then die,
My little war is won.

Fourteen days I lay there,
Solemnly in peace,
Until my friends came for me,
One limb less for each.

When I woke next morning,
The radios chattered, TV’s rattled,
Our big war was won,
Blind, deaf and paralyzed,
My life has just begun.

I can’t help but quote Wilfrid Owen – “My subject is war, and the Pity of war – The poetry is in the pity”