Fingers are soldiers Shaking themselves dry in the trenches After marching through the Sogging September rain. No-Man's Land sits back And smiles with a Cigar perched between his lips. Your potholes, your wires, Your snarling faces, death traps, Bloody corpses and explosive shards Have laid themselves down: Sacrifices are willing but murder is now. And no raven will ever land On my heart, No shadow will pass itself Through the needle Of my mind. To be red again is the blessing; What was murder is triumph And blood running black Is puncuated by landmines. Jawless comrades Gape at us with Broken, edited teeth. Fingers stiffened in the cold, Pointing skyward and inward And towards the deserted valleys Where the innocents used to sleep.