The bugler to the Military Cemetery has gone,
In the ranks of the procession you'll find him,
In a manner of erect and soldierly bearing,
As he clutches his brass bugle beside him.
The Military Cemetery is a hallowed ground
Where memories of heroic veterans will never cease.
Flags on the graves still flutter gently in the breeze
Recognizing those who served and where valor sleeps.
White crosses protrude from the sacred sod,
Marking the site of veterans too young to die.
On burial day, the sound of TAPS filters the breeze
While comrades bow their head and openly cry.
Each grave plot and marker is tended with care
In memory of veterans who were willing to dare.
The bugler standing near the bivouac of the dead
Honored them with the playing of TAPS filling the air.
Hearing the musical notes of TAPS on a bugle
Bring back a memorable page from the past,
Leaving a lump in the throat - tears in the eyes.
A special, but eerie feeling that will forever last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem