Like living corpses onwards we trudged,
Coughing and cursing we went,
Longing for the bases walls,
Longing for the end of war,
Men marched in slumbers,
Blood-shod feet,
Blind now to destruction,
Deaf now to the noise of rank despair,
A man called out,
And in the hurried movements of one not long from death,
We fitted on our flimsy masks,
But still I heard a yelling,
And through the mist I saw my friend,
Stumbling, yelling, dying,
Dying like a guttering flame,
Caught in a winds harsh breeze,
Taking my hand he died,
And in my arms he took one last breath,
If in some lucid dream,
You too should walk behind deaths wagon,
And hear it's rasping sound,
See it's mask on ones own friend,
You would not talk of distant glory,
Would not speak of what is right,
You would not tell your children,
That for ones country,
Death is sweet, and pure.
Holly Heron
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-adaption-of-dulce-et-decorum-est/