WORLD WAR 1 GOODBYE MY SON
The trenches are filled
with the bodies of sons
mud‑soaked uniforms,
faces ruined,
mouths hanging open with no words
left to give.
I trudge through the corpses
searching for my boy,
rolling bodies over
but recognizing no one.
He was seventeen,
enlisted far too young,
convinced by others
that duty must be done.
Broken rifles
that could volley no more.
Bayonets lodged in chests,
their blades dulled by time
though the damage was already done.
I wade through the mud
looking for my son.
It clings to my boots
with guilt and horror,
like St. Longinus
who pierced the side of Christ.
Too much bloodshed
these boys did give
yet no cross to rest on,
no medals to adorn,
just forgotten corpses
encased in sour mud
of a world gone mad with war.
Through fear and duty
they jumped when the whistle
screamed
grab your bayonets, your rifles,
pistols and spades
lay waste to the boys on the other
side.
He may look like you,
cry, smile, and laugh,
but he is the enemy,
and that won’t do.
If you don’t kill him,
he will surely kill you.
The madness of war
turns boys into grandfathers
who remember the past
and the atrocities they’ve done.
Run fast and steady,
they command from behind
headed into hell
in a cancerous line,
bitten down by tiny mosquitos
of weapons so poisonous
even God couldn’t imagine.
Rest, boys, if you can.
Take pride in your duty served,
and bleed for your land.
I will tell your mothers and fathers
that you died a hero
but in my mind
you were always just my little boy.
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| ROBERT MARGETTS |
The poem is about how war destroys identity, innocence, and humanity, leaving behind only bodies, mud, and memory. It shows a father confronting the brutal truth that his son — and all the sons around him — were sacrificed for an idea of “duty” that never protected them.
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