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