Put on your soft mittens as you mete out punches The stench of despair has sent the flies flying As wretched voices die in the agony of the trenches, Smoke, fire, death, silence, blood slowly crying. Don't let those tears disappear without telling Of how they came to be. From aching gland burning, From swollen heart entrapped dreaming of belling Of events that cause in all for justice a yearning Don't let the fires chew up the browning pages Where once sordid tales told the willing student Of what would come this way, or that way, the wages Of right, wrong; the way of the vile, of the prudent Telling of wretched voices dying in the trenches, Of smoke, fire, and of blood slowly crying. Don't let memory die as they split us into tranches To silence half, then lead both halves into trenches. (c) nyonglema
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