To be the slain, to be the maimed,
To be midst those strewn on the plains,
To be those faces left forgotten,
Left in places, corpses rotten,
Is not the dream of glory told,
By wizened soldiers, stories old.
The glory of the battle gone,
And death's last rattling song,
Ringing out from voices young,
Their love ballads yet unsung.
I just want to understand