Mud.
Higher than their waists.
Bodies littered among the crud.
What a waste!
Clothes in tatters,
but does it matter?
Gasses leak
Stick arms too weak
to hold up a gun.
Mama, you just lost a son,
but does it matter?
Bombs sound.
Short legs pound the ground,
deciphering the maze in the trench.
A shower of shells drench,
those young minds below.
It forces them to scatter,
but does it matter?
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