Above the fields of waving corn
He stands to face the guns at dawn
A much loved brother, dearest son,
This soldier boy - he looks too young
To fight. But he succumbed to fear.
Just seventeen. A volunteer.
He will not see another dawn,
Another field of waving corn,
Or see the skylarks swoop and swing
And hear the thrush or blackbird sing.
Nor meet again those he holds dear.
Just seventeen. A volunteer.
He lied about his age, so keen
Was he to live his boyhood dream
To wear the uniform, and fight
So countrymen could sleep at night.
But he knew nothing, then, of fear.
Just seventeen. A volunteer.
The mud, the cold, the rifles' blast,
The deaths of comrades, falling fast.
The waste. The utter waste. How could
A sheltered youth have understood
That war was this; this pain, this fear?
Just seventeen. A volunteer.
Blindfolded, bound, he stands alone,
And thinks for one last time, of home.
The warmth of a bed, a mother's kiss -
It wasn't meant to be like this.
His enemy not men, but fear.
Just seventeen. A volunteer
(I have long been haunted by the thought of the young soldiers who were put to death simply because they could no longer stand the hell that was war.)
