To hear the deafening silence,
In the still of battles end,
Stark contrast from mens screaming,
As torn bodies fail to mend.

To smell a burning torso,
On a freezing Fitzroy morn,
The stench of death hangs heavy,
In the mist before the dawn.

To see such devastation,
Smouldering bodies, blackened blood,
Such carnage and destruction,
Lifeless in the crud.

To touch the eyelids gently,
Softly close them shut,
Stick the barrel in the scorched soil,
Hang the helmet on the butt.

The taste of victory should be sweet,
But to a tongue as dry as sand,
The taste of fear and grime prevails,
The taste is very bland.