War is sick, cruel, and harsh,
A bedlam of torrid tones,
A putrid crimson marsh,
A symphony of moans and groans.
It is callous, murderous thought,
Vicious contempt and hate,
It is an Angel in a furnace caught,
With a Devil for a mate.
It is filth and rotting waste,
Pain and death and fear,
It is goodness forever defaced,
And bitterness shed as a tear.
It is Natureís way on the Earth,
Else Godís sordid, mysterious mirth.
November 03 Colin F Jones