On A Senior Master Sergeant Poem by Bill Grace
On A Senior Master Sergeant
Quietly she stands in line
Behind those of clearly lower rank
Her strips of seven noticeable against their three - four
Her face is taught she does not talk or smile
Carries a silent sadness about her
that takes my greeting with good accord
As she gathers food to bag and goes out the door
Captive pilgrim towards an eighth stripe more
Not even lunch allowed to break
The frightful pace of march.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/18/2024 9:07:37 PM # 1.0.0.1119
