WE are studying war poets at Gosford Hill School. I have written the following poem.

These Hellish Things Who are these?

Flesh and corpse, blood and bone, He choked on the mere disgrace Of the propaganda in which he was imprisoned; A lie. A lie that burned his throat.

Who are these?

No mortal could wander, oblivious Across the Hellish plains of God knows where; Perilous, disgusting, awful; Dogs have made this mess.

Who are these?

Slump, slump. The sound of your heart-SHELLS!

Landing too close to you like death is too close to ignore.

Stumbling through the alley, you reach clumsily For your machine; from it you can never be apart.

Who are these?

Smoke billows from the mouth of hate, Anybody for a cigar?

Dirt clouds your vision Like death clouds your mind; a Hell of a fate.

Who are these?

Nobody answers your inquisitive thoughts, Or is it desperation?

One’s mind is an abyss of misery When the abyss if full of ‘morte’ Who are these?

A small glimpse of you – withered, no pride – In a cracked looking glass.

Men shriek above; Their fires have burned out, leaving but cool embers inside.

Who are these?

These are men whose ends have been met.

These are those who are mere entities.

These are humans that would kill not to kill.

These are the millions – the world – that will never forget.

Who are these?

THEY are these.

LUCY TRUMAN, Edinburgh Drive, Kidlington