In the meadowlands when shadows lay quietly,
Whispers of the wind speak hauntingly.
And the fallen soldier, “Have mercy,” He cries,
Rising against the darkness a lost memory in his eyes.
Breath of life he surely fought, never to yield,
Flesh he lost, blood freely left, many he killed.
Life, oh once he had one, but his country had a need,
And as he fought, such pride, for his land he would bleed.
And bleed he did, shattering flesh to breaking bone,
Echoes of thunder, release the rumbling ash and stone.
He cannot die, no, not yet there is something needs be done,
Crawling ever forward, explosion, half smile, he won.
His last grenade, the enemy, bits and pieces of what once had been,
A hero’s death, as he asked God to watch over his family and friends.
A sigh passed his lips and a smile touched his heart for he lived,
Feeling old an ancient after many years he gave all he could give.
© Cynthia Clark