On Death

Day in, day out, here in the ground we toil. Like rats,
We dig, we eat, we sleep, we march. And then repeat.
But unlike rats, we kill.
We kill and die, we kill and die, we kill and die.
Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori?
No, It is not sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.
It is sweet and fitting to live, not to die.
It is sweet and fitting to hear silence.
It is sweet and fitting to sleep on a mattress.
It is sweet and fitting to tuck in to a warm meal.
It is sweet and fitting to wash, to shave, to shower.
It is sweet and fitting to use a proper latrine.
It is sweet and fitting to wear clean clothes.
It is sweet and fitting to enjoy your dry, warm feet.
It is sweet and fitting to leave the gas mask in its proper place.
Most of all, it is sweet and fitting to live. To live, and not to die. It is sweet and fitting.
Here, life not be sweet and fitting.
No, here we grow accustomed to, comfortable with Death.
Like the friend we all have, he is never invited,
But always comes along. One gets to know him, just the same.
And all for what? Who can say why?
A soldier cannot. For he is the just noose.
Otherwise just a length of rope, others make the knot. Others drop the floor.
These young men, they are Death’s agents.
Deadlier than you can imagine. I wonder
How many would be friends, in another world.
But instead they fight. They only kill and die.
Kill and die, kill and die, kill and die
Dig, eat, sleep, march. And then repeat.
Of Horace, I know not how he lived,
Only that he died, and died not knowing Death.