The TrenchA Poem by DaphneA poem about WW1.In the trench, the mustard gas is crawling. Shot dead, as bullets fly overhead they who chose to charge, cast unto the hail of lead. Ever forward, lumbering beasts are rolling. And thus the trench lay silent, screams echoing in the valley To be torn or burnt, who’s now left to rally. © 2021 Daphne |
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Added on March 7, 2021 Last Updated on March 7, 2021 Author
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