The Sorrows of the Survivor

I hardly knew them, the beautiful men,
The fresh troops, the reinforcements.
When we heard the whistle sound
And we charged with super-human panache,
The new recruits scrambled to be the first.

A thousand years before, this had been farmland.
A peasant lass sang as she led the cows to milking,
The pasture green and rolling like a magical inland sea.
The pond, the shade trees, the very air
Gave of the same sweetness, the same simplicity.

And I saw my new comrades,
Who should have grown strong and happy,
Who should have romped on the green with a peasant lass,
Cut to pieces in a matter of seconds,
Sacrificed in poison and fire to God knows what.