VAE VICTIS
(Latin:  “Woe to the Vanquished”)

   Bang. Bang. Bang.
   That’s how every morning starts.
   Tommies unloading over our heads.
   It sounds like thousands of angry bees
   Wanting nothing more than to get to the syrup locked in your head.

   Bang. Bang. Bang.
   That's what the afternoon sounds like.
   Mowing down line after line of charging Tommies.
   Like a lawn overgrown.
   But grass doesn’t have mothers or friends.  

   The night is quiet.
   The sounds of moaning and snoring are the only things you hear.
   The men 20 meters from you are begging for mercy.
   Calling for death.
   Wanting the pain to stop.

 
  
   Men scale the walls of the trench.
   Like firemen rescuing people from a burning building.
   They come back with men.
   It’s hard to tell if they’re dead or unconscious.
   Blood drips from everyone though.

   Over the wall you can see the shadows of men.
   Ghost of the dead maybe.
   Or just the men who will shoot at you tomorrow.
   In the sky there are stars.
   One for every friend you’ve lost that day.

   Bang. Bang. Bang.
   That’s how the morning starts.
   It’s a new day.
   But the same routine.
   Vae Victis.

--End--