The Dying Soldier Poem by Randy McClave

I held the soldier's hand
As he laid dying in a foreign land,
He looked at me with all of his fears
Sadly, there was no woman comforting him with her tears.
I asked him if he had any last words
He then talked to me about the bluegrass and the birds,
Soon death would not be an enemy, but a friend
Happily, no more eradication notices would he ever send.
Finally he would be going home
His soul to God, and his body never again sent to roam,
Then I knew that this one soldier was truly lucky
No more sadness, no more pain, and back to Kentucky.

Randy L. McClave