20
I am four letters on a slip of white,
Words forced to learn at age to fight.
I have no name, nor sound, but I am written --
on scriptures by soldiers and mothers of Britain,
Who I have never seen,
And those who will no longer be,
What I was then,
A soldier of twenty.
I am voiceless, silent, like all the rest,
Sorley's mouthless and Brooke's English best.
They all learn my story,
Learn it, off by heart,
And reel it off to show how smart
they each can be,
But they don't care,
About them or me.
Four letters on a slip of white,
The nameless, etched, engrained in their head,
Voiceless, lost, forced to fight,
We are one word. We are the dead.
---
Back to Original Fiction