Soldiers on the warfront,
They wake to the bangs of explosions,
The young men cower at the sound.
The popping of bullets fired from hidden guns,
Slices through the thick morning air.
The enemy advance, inching ever nearer.
And men crawl through the slicked mud.
Women run for first aid supplies,
A futile effort for the
Another wounded, his best friend dead.
Bullets are loaded into the waiting guns.
With shaking hands
Shells explode left and right,
With ringing ears, they return to the trenches.
Small fires flower across the ground.
The only relief is the yellow flag at sunset.
Only an hour, not long enough to grieve.
Throwing body after body into their final bed,
Laying them down to sleep with their friends.
Piled high, ever growing higher, more and more.
Then after the hour the guns begin again,
They sleep in short blocks, at close quarters,
Short comfort for the hours they will spend,
As soldiers on the warfront,
the men we call the ANZAC's.
