All Quiet on the Western Front

On the iron‑clad fringe where scar‑red wind stands, The trench‑filled land, where fallen feet meet sand, I walk in ghost‑lit dust of rifle‑fire’s breath— A weary hush where German drill met quiet death.

In gory mud, the young men lean their dreams Upon the ground where comrade’s cries have died; The lee of fear, the blight of war’s obscene Stitches together lives— a raw, torn pride.

The war rooms, echoing with broken days, The quiet that belies the rusted shell, Hastily they march toward Sir Grimace’s gaze To scent the tear of those that cannot yell.

The enemy’s guns, distant like a drum, Even in the hour when silence roars; The scurry of life in scuffles that come In black of night where the Jigsaw of war so sore.

The poets speak of a heart that turns to stone To their own longing, when the constellations stood as the day that roars broken dew’s bone The fates of them who never yet return.

We speak of war through the neat spears, the harry, Bustled with the flag of Home Government; Our younger comps, delivered to the blazer, Savour tea while at the front away.

The book tells of a battle that is loud, Where the bristling light that reducts the form of an axe, The soil and us that step beyond the answer, When in pain a sudden evening emerges.

So all the endures through murmurs, through council, Will or will not be loose, no war on the way; The kindness of the memories we regard —— in each small shack of that dreamy gloom.

A cry that sets the meadow and the quickest falls, Of war that lies, and the city where its warmth persists, It says the hidden as long as the dream.