On the field of tarnished brown,
He spent the golden years of his youth in a storm of mud
and gunpowder and the disillusionment
that war was not the glorious thing he believed.
On the field where dreams were only evanescent
as crimson screams bled into smoky skies,
none of the soldiers remained exactly pure,
None of them untainted.
On the field with gunshots on replay,
He almost grew numb to it all,
to all the blood and chaos and fear and despair
as friends, enemies, cities turned to ashes,
And so did he.
On the field that was once an innocent green,
What was left of him was lowered into the ground
With shell fragments still inside so that war will never leave him,
Not even in the eternal peace of death.