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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