To those officials who began the war
Where is the glory that you sought?
Does it lie on the blood-soaked land?
Or in the children who'll never understand
What happened to their fathers and brothers?
Is it in the anguished tears of bereaved mothers?
Is it in the growing sense of despair
When the green gas comes to choke the air?
Is it with the soldiers facing death
When the gas drains away their breath?
Is it in the shells that fall on the towns
Bringing hopes and houses crashing down?
Is it in the poppy's blood-red flower?
Or in the hopes and dreams the war turned sour?
Was it with the fallen faces of those who spent
That cold, wet Christmas in a trench?
Or is it with those who remained at home,
Those forced to continue their lives alone?
Is it with the soldiers lying in unmarked graves?
Is it with the lives that couldn't be saved?
Where is the glory in that disastrous event?
Where's the glory with so many lives spent?
Where was the wisdom of those in power
Who waited for the eleventh day, the eleventh hour?