the prologue ( a poem)
With boots of bricks, they broke their rhythm,
with bodies of old they battled on.
Under fire lit skies they say no heaven;
they bore the victims of the soldier's song.
Beneath the boulders they grew older,
Their heavy hearts of haunted hate.
Each soul of gold which then turned colder,
knew the country's battle would always wait.
On they marched, their heads held high,
wishing for home across a foreign sea.
One fell down with a gutted cry-
his face a mask of misled grief.
Another stumbled, his battle through,
-he smashed onto the mud.
Another victim of the dreaming youth
Another victim of the thirst for blood
