Above is the last verse of Siegfried Sassoon’s Suicide in the Trenches, one of the most powerful pieces of poetry I have ever read.

First published in 1918, this harrowing and hauntingly evocative poem often brings tears to my eyes as I contemplate the horrors that those brave young men suffered in the bloodbaths of World War One.

Hard-hitting, memorable poetry like this ought to serve as a stark deterrent to the kind of waking nightmare that the poor soldiers in Ukraine – and other war-torn nations – are enduring as I write.

But, appallingly, there’s always a nefarious warmonger in waiting; an evil arsehole perfectly prepared to put an end to peacetime, extinguish countless precious lives and ensure that history repeats itself in the worst ways possible.

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you’ll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.