I make my way through the snow,
of the way many went, but not yet come,
I made my way through that sticky snow,
upon which lies a sickly sight.
The bodies mangled, mauled, and dead,
it's a sight that mothers dread,
for when they know their child's dead.
they'll soon cry upon the heads,
the heads upon which mark the dead.
They're not to run in golden fields,
nor take joy in simple crafts,
will be upon hearts like shafts.
The sight of this scarred black land,
is one of which no child should know,
not the slopes slicked with blood,
nor the poppies splashed with red,
not the wheat stomped to bread,
this is field, of which no child should know,
and that's the sorrow on my soul.
Jacob Biehl
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-which-no-child-should-know/
