Don’t speak to me of the Anzac Spirit
Of battles lost and won.
There are no winners, only losers,
When nations, many nations go to war.
At Gallipoli they fell
Eight thousand on that shore
In France
Fifty thousand more.
Each one a young man in the prime of life
Each one with a father, mother, sister, brother, wife.
Look there, lying in the mud,
My son lying dead.
He would have been twenty in a month.
He took a bullet in his thigh and fell
Then a tank has crossed his chest and crushed his head.
They know him by his dog tags
And send the message home,
“Killed in action” one of many such.
I open up the telegram
My mind is full of dread
I have to tell the family what I read.
A young girl, a teacher, whom he planned to wed,
His brother and his sisters gather round.
I go to find his father who left thirteen years ago
And whom I haven’t spoken to since then.
We speak and cry together, united in our grief.
We cannot hold his funeral
Or bring his body home.
There are many thousand stories just like ours.
Don’t speak to me of the Anzac Spirit
Of battles won or lost
Our souls lie broken on the battle field
Our Anzac spirit crushed into the mud.
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