They called it glory, drums and flame,
Young voices marching without fear,
But war arrived like winter rain,
Cold enough to kill a year.

It spread through cities, fields, and homes,
A sickness no one could outrun,
Turning brothers into ghosts,
Before their lives had just begun.

Mothers prayed by candlelight,
While letters stopped without goodbye,
And nations fed the fever still,
As countless sons were left to die.

There’s nothing noble in the mud,
No honour in the endless scars,
For war is not a grand adventure —
It is a plague carried by stars.

Paul Baldry

Inspired by the haunting words of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, “War is not an adventure. It is a disease. It is like typhus,” this poem explores the brutal reality behind patriotic slogans and battlefield glory. It reflects on war as a spreading sickness that infects nations, destroys innocence, and leaves generations carrying the scars of loss, grief, and silence. Seems we didn’t learn from history.

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