We travel in our hordes to see that place,
Wherein our loved ones fell without a trace.
Marked and blanketed by stones in white
Covering that great plain, that great site.
Farm hand boys and factory workers,
Friends from villages, schools and clubs.
Joined together, left their homeland
To lie decayed amongst the scrub.
Their voices call out still across that plain,
Feet are still heard thundering, inches gained.
Hearts were in their mouths, panting fast
And struggling, reached their enemies at last.
The bodies lay before them in the mud,
Mingled with the dirt, the crimson blood.
No time to mourn a brother or a friend,
Just pass them by, praying for the end.
Guns that deafened now are stilled,
Armies of boys and men were killed.
Some just memories to their kin,
Some carried pain through life like sin.
They gave us freedom, free to speak.
They made us strong not kept us weak.
We live in peace and fear no man.
They gave their lives so we just can.
copyright Tessa Thomson November 2020