Passchendaele by The Crows Of Albion / Bard Company

Passchendaele (Autumn 1917)

Blind, wide open, eyes.
Dripping poppy petal tears.
Crimson rivers flow.

Fields transformed to mud.
Deep cut trenches scar the earth.
Wounds that will not heal.

Gas clouds drift from hell.
Death exhaled in fetid breath.
Lost boys fall like flies.

Ghosts haunt no mans land
searching for their bitter souls
in butchered bodies.

Finding empty shells,
cold bullet riddled corpses.
Nameless and broken.

First light cracks the dark
Holy, holy Seraphim
burn the battlefield.

No place for God here.
Just the stench of charnel house
and false politics.

Loss of Innocence
on Golgotha’s barbaric
ridge at Passchendaele.