brutally cast them behind its blood stained bars
and through the slatted shadows they rarely saw the stars.
The bodies of their comrades made a mocking of their fears,
Their anguish and the torment floats haunting down the years.
Few of us can visualise this hell on Anzac day,
Imagination wanes at their four bleak years away.
We’re unified in senseless loss, as the faces fade to black,
of the eighty thousand Anzacs who never made it back.
No artist’s brush can illustrate the horror of their fate
with pain a willing partner and death a welcome mate.
Over eighty years have passed since their bloody trial was fought,
At what a cost the glory and harmony they bought.
Across this sunburnt country new concepts now demand
We Globalize and come to order, in a New World wonderland.
But memories of the Anzacs impedes the culture swing
towards a New Society with World Bank enthroned as King.
In a tyranny of free markets to which we were led by stealth….
On this so-called 'level playing field' where the only goal is wealth….
Sovereignty of our nation fades, sweat shops are manifold…
Millions of women every year are traded, bought and sold.
Would our Anzacs heed the call to arms and rally to defend
Ravenous global corporate greed and its awesome dividend ?
Would they seek again that draught of glory which they drank?
Would they spill once more their precious blood, in allegiance to a bank?
Midi: Chiaki Ikenoue