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Poetry from within
   

The Eight Hundred Sixty Three




Eight hundred and sixty three people answered their countryís call

Eight hundred and sixty three soldiers were destined that day to fall

In the brutal style of combat their death came and it was violent

Their guns so keenly polished too early that day they fell silent

All along the Western Front lives extinguished one by one

Pushed forward by demands on high and mown down by the Hun



In eleven hours of fighting the list of causalities

Grew until the numbered dead was eight hundred sixty three

That number isnít special, but the date you might remember

The year was 1918 on the 11th of November

Though the rules of war permit it, that doesnít make it right

Four hundred brace of soldiers didnít make it to the night



After years of bloody conflict, the incessant static grind

What was the point of the killing? The armistice was signed

The call to arms was over. Did they have to loss their life?

I wonder now itís over was it worth their sacrifice?

Perhaps the saddest telegrams that were ever sent were these

To the mothers and the fathers of the eight hundred sixty three




Mar 2015

Sam Steele