The Voices Of The Dead

 

 Walking in the park I can’t help but remember what my grandfather said to me

I look around and all I can see

Is what I imagined when he told me the story

Of a long forgotten past... nothing but a memory

The wooden chip trail transforms in front of my very eyes

I’m transported into a muddy trench

Rats feeding on corpses surrounded by flies

Friends of the dead soldiers fuelled by revenge

Looking down I see a familiar face

Recognising him I turn my head in grimace

One, Two, No, Three holes in the deceased

I close my friend’s eyes so he can be at peace

My head aches I hear a sharp ringing sound

Knocked off my feet my face slaps mud

Mounds of dirt heaving off the ground

Voices crying out but drowning in blood

A white light is piercing my vision

I try to get up; I hear voices, so I listen

But they fade away before I can make out what they’re saying

The only things I hear now are children playing.

And the story my grandfather told me?

                                                                    

                                                                                  Nothing but a memory