The lamps, the lamps are going out
Across this European land,
So with our allies we must stand,
The lamps, the lamps are going out.
A world unnerved on last resorts,
An ultimatum, nothing more
And if we march, we march to war
With no response, no last retorts.
The lights are waning, turning dim,
The fog of conflict swells anew,
No compass point can hide from view,
No borders set can keep it in.
The battleships refuelled, refined,
Sail to the brink, to the unknown,
That carry us so far from home;
That carry us to our consigned.
A step upon these foreign soils,
Its surfaces so deeply scarred,
Ejecting men with disregard,
As battlegrounds spit forth their spoils.
Our tin-man hats and sharpened blades,
Our rifles, loaded, clutched in hand.
Intended sight down no-man’s land,
Defend us in dirt barricades.
The shells, the shells deface, defile,
The whistle screams ‘all up, all out!’
Upon the earth, the dread, the doubt,
To spill like sand over the pile.
With twisted limbs, they’ll stack us high,
Upon this bludgeoned, bloodied land,
Our final fight, as brothers, stand,
Our only wish, in graves we’ll lie.
The lamps, the lamps are going out,
Across the European plain,
But pray, and pray they’ll light again,
The lamps, the lamps are going out…
Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin