In a theatre of war
on a cold, cold day.
A bullit rang out,
and someone started to pray,
For there in the gutter,
A soldier lay
dying from a bulitt wound
maybe it was a stray.
He was a mothers son,
A fathers pride,
But now just a loving memory,
Now he's died.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem