His Younger Brother Knew

When I was young,
I had a dream.
But that was before
I heard the scream.

I had joined the army;
Wanted to rise to fame.
We walked from dawn to dusk,
Only to face the flame.

The fire rained upon us,
As if the Gods were angry with my life.
I ran to the nearest dugout,
In which I had to dive.

Then I heard it – a terrifying scream,
He begged for mercy, his tortured cries tormenting my dreams.

I couldn’t help
But feel really scared.
This as the reality,
In which my mind had been snared.

And before I knew it,
It was all over,
And I could smell,
A fiery odor.

I heard people screaming,
Shouting for support.
People – burnt and black
Their faces on full distort.

Days passed, we trudged on,
Unaware of the deaths approaching.
Did what we were told,
And continued hoping.


Weeks after the fire incident,
I found myself inside a trench.
Silent tears sliding down my cheeks,
Because of all the innocent lives I had to wrench.

Father, brother, cousin, friend – it didn’t matter to me,
Because the only thing that mattered was keeping up the killing spree.

With guns firing all around me,
I entered the enemy’s land,
Only to be shot down,
At a low-rank soldier’s command.

There I lay on the filthy ground,
Pain blocking everything except the spinning;
I was truly happy when the Light brightened,
For death was only the beginning…


His family surrounded him,
Their faces full of fake pride.
Only his younger brother knew,
That when left alone they cried.

On the day of his burial,
His family said he fought for his country well.
Only his younger brother know,
That this was the “truth” they had been forced to sell.

Days turned into months,
No-one heard of the family.
Only his younger brother knew,
That his family joined him in death calmly.

Hami and his family are united even in death,
What more can someone ask for?

This was a poem that I wrote when I was in year 9 (about three and a half years ago!). I remember writing this after we had studied about the Second World War in our History class – it is a really vivid memory.

I remember my mother being really sad after reading my poem. I think it was because she didn’t expect me to be able to write about such mature topics at the ripe age of 13. I can only imagine the thoughts and feelings going through her head as her eyes tried to process the words I had written down on a notepad in my typical messy handwriting.

Its quite fascinating to see how far I have come since then, in terms of my writing. I hope you enjoy this! – Rudy

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