The child ran amid the ruins,
his footsteps shallow on the wet ground.
His stick held in stealth position.
The fireworks the only sound.

He comes to the edge of the forest mouth.
And stops on the sodden ground.
The whizzes and bangs self made by mouth
are echoing in the moonlight.

The youngest of the group falls
and rolls around in the mud.
His finals words shatter the silence,
and he jokes in his pretend blood.

The silver rain is heightened in the light.
Dodging and diving in the trees,
And the snipers start the rehearsed fight.
As the rains soaks through the kneeling knees

The sound of running is getting louder.
You can feel the fear in the air.
A final pray for families at home.
and the love of maidens fair.

Crack, smash and clang.
The silver rain pierces his body,
his arm and leg mauled and severed.
He yells hoping somebody
can hear his frightened plea.

Now lying sodden in the mud,
hoping the others cant see
the glowing red of the blood
which is hopefully shaded by the trees.

His rifle falls onto the patch
of ground before he falls,
while we at home eat our steaks
and weep when our child falls.

The rest flee and leave him there
in the treacherous battle- park -field.
Before they realise a man is down
they are forced to yield their sticks.
For Queen and country raise them up at dawn.
And shoot for goodness sake.
Because unlike the park you will not respawn.
But you will burn just like your sticks.