I had not even reached twenty and had not loved
I had not travelled I had not written books
This is my only serious poem
Recorded in blood
I had no argument with the enemy
Yet others thought that this area of scrubland
Was worth fighting for
Yet they are alive
Sitting on the coffins of the dead
Planning the next offensive
Dear Mother
Dear Father
Dear Martha
Think well of me
As I rot alone
In this foreign ditch