there's not a sound where he sleeps
no creaking of boards
of the feet that run across them
no hurry or scurry
of the rats fighting for his food
no shriek in the night
of the metallic monster in its decent
no crumbling earth
of the monster's deadly hit
no cries of men
of the soon to be dead
there's not a sound where he sleeps
no whistle from the general
of the command to go 'over the top'
no pounding of feet
of boots splashing across the land of none
no rata-tat-tat
of both machine and gun
no thud on the ground
of the next one who fell
no cries of men
of the soon to be dead
there's not a sound where he sleeps
not a sound to be heard
but a whisper
a call in the wind
a kind and gentle voice saying;
"well done my good and faithful servant"