They look down on me because of the uniform,

They don’t know I’m also war-torn.

Greyer hair clings on for duality of life,

Soldiers like me often turn for the knife.

People didn’t think we had much worth,

It’s not our choice to be a soldier, not ever from birth.

Rats scurry in the trench to hide from rain,

While we shelter from bullets engraved with our name.

I’m not ashamed to admit I am scared,

Only seventeen and shouldn’t have cared.

But I signed up not knowing it’d be hard,

Heads blown off, I’m already scarred.

Reddened water drowns mouldy corpse,

I see eyes pecked out by hungry hawks.

They reek and spread disease like a plague,

As I wipe away pus with medicated sage.

But I feel strange as I bow with my gun,

No easy smokes or guys having fun.

My thoughts draw towards a baby in a cot,

That’s when I realise: it’s me who’s been shot.

I never thought it would one day be me,

I felt envious of those who lived to flee.

A friend asked if I was ok,

My mouth too clogged with blood for me to say.

Falling down onto knees of clotted bone,

Stiff and cold, my last breath drawn to a moan.

People bent down, crying over the victory I’d made,

But as I was dying I still felt afraid.