Denisse Lopez Garza (Year 9 Orange)
I have never known why people signed up for the war,
Ready for adventure,
Ready to leave their safe life behind.
They broke promises they swore they would keep,
Made many families weep,
They lose what they value from those adamant minds.
Those people are brave,
Incredibly bold,
Gratefully valiant.
They are undeniably fearless,
Never careless,
And vastly gallant.
Even 50 years later,
Even 100 or more,
Their efforts buried in our country’s prideful core
Every 25th of April,
Without any fail,
We celebrate the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.
We read out the names,
Carved like scars onto the marble,
Of people that once set foot on this land.
At the start of the day,
The Ode we all say,
And we all reverently stand.
We celebrate their actions,
Their courageous decisions,
Their arrival onto the shores.
Missing their loved ones they adore,
Far far away from the war,
Entrusted with the uncertain secrets the future holds.
I hear the melodious bugle,
The Last Post,
A way to remember their lives.
What they did,
What trauma they hid,
And their sacrifice.
On their way to Gallipoli,
That dreadful day,
Did they feel free?
With their melancholy agony,
the aches and soreness on their knees,
And a desperate need to flee?
The final note of the bugle signifies the start of the silence,
A time to reflect on the souls long forgotten,
When their duties were fulfilled,
When their friends were killed,
And when their joy was stolen.
Accept the rising silence,
The broken hopes,
The hopeless determination,
The lost lives,
Their worried wives,
Their growing trepidation.
Imagine being a soldier,
Woken up by the reveille,
Eating ANZAC biscuits with friends,
Friends, who after the battle would never be seen again.
Friends, that if they survive will never be the same,
Friends, that left valuables nobody has yet claimed.
Imagine writing a letter,
Which will go far away,
About the war, about pain, about sorrow,
You talk about your success in two-up,
But there’s a greater chance at your luck,
Than the possibility of being safe tomorrow.
To Flanders Fields,
The soldiers go,
Hungry, thirsty, tired,
Many have died,
Many will die,
After the first shot is fired.
The blood-red poppies,
The remainder of destruction,
The reminder of our honour,
They grow near the crosses,
That show the hidden losses,
And leave our peaceful minds to ponder.
When the sun rises,
After the breathtaking dawn,
The light has risen at last.
We will pay tribute to the people we miss,
We’ll always celebrate and reminisce,
Our war-stricken past.
