An old man silently waits and listens and stands,

In chill autumn wind and freezing cold rain.

The cold it has nipped at and reddened his hands,

His eyes are red too, with memories of pain.


He walks along quietly, among flowers of red,

A faded , moth-eaten old beret sits proud on his head.

The poppies, a memorial to young men long dead,

In France they now lie, mother earth is their bed.


His cap badge is shining and medals are too,

It took him no time to polish his shoes.

The crowds look on in awe, they don’t have a clue,

What this man and his comrades, for the country they do.


He lifts up his face and looks at the sky,

Tears run down as the bugle soars high.

“Why my mates, oh goddess, why did they die?”

“Why are they dead and gone and i’m still alive?”



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