It's the wave of a mother to her son as he leaves
The shores of his homeland for a hell overseas.
It's the wreckage and carnage as the tanks rumble by
While searchlights and bullets light up the sky.
It's the look of despair on the innocent's face
As another evacuee stands alone with his case.
It's the sight of war.

It's the droning of engines from way up high,
And the screams of its victims as they lie down and die.
It's the wailing of women as their menfolk depart
To return as a memory left dear in their heart.
It's the songs of the soldiers keeping morale alive,
Even though they all know very few will survive.
It's the sound of the war.

It's the sharpness of lemons, acid on tongue.
The brimstone and smoke released from a gun.
It's the sickly sensation of a bittersweet gourd,
As ruby wine drips from a blood-stained sword.
It's the dryness of crackers that stick in the throat,
A chance of fresh water so very remote.
It's the taste of the war.

It's the decaying life as it rots from the bone
That makes them long for the sweetness of home.
It's the dust and destruction, hanging thick in the air
That assaults the nostrils until they no longer care.
It's the odor of closeness; men packed hundreds per trench,
That's strangely by now such a comforting stench.
It's the smell of the war.

It's the searing pain of a thousand spears,
Each one unleashing a million fears.
It's the duty and comradeship, devotion and pride,
Overwhelming sorrow for the brave ones who died.
It's the razor sharp glass, the roughness of stone,
A maiden's smooth skin... we want to go home.
It's the touch of war.