Their today's begin- as the yesterday's,
frosted dew from th' nights cold mist-
blanketing acres of serrate damp soil,
sunshine grazing tips of grass-blade;
peacefully warm white burst of light,
perhaps Mother Natures kinder side-
for their silent, mortal dwelling place,
boxed below th' sod- forever sleeping
be these souls of unfinished business,
far-long beyond injustice an' bloodshed,
taken young for th' love of free breath,
now buried in a field of white crosses;
real names attached to dates and war,
their dates so tragically not far apart,
[an' their stories would pale a ghost].
An' from th' lowlands to th' highlands,
beyond th' smooth shores o' Donnegal-
there be scant sod, for the future dead
fresh green sod has, lo, turned to sage,
red nascent sunsets eclipse stoned arch.
shadows creep, gradually....hauntingly-
[o'er th' etchings... of every white Cross].
And we visit...lay down silent prayers
that Peace be found...by these Soldiers,
keep them warm in eversleep.....'neath-
th' chill...........of their white stone cross.
© 2019-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem