To the eternal rhythm of the Copper Kettle
drum, Bom, Bom. Bom, I heard the men
run, their fears always there, aflying
ahead. How not to see their wounds? Or
the fallen, or the dead? Or that terrifying
noise the guns made as soldiers ran, on to
the savage killing fields with fragile
courage to defy the tack, tack, tack, of the
machine gun along the lanes of fire, a fury
untold, a medal polished gold. Long hours
often pass, ghostly when the dust drifts in
on the sweaty faces as men fall into, oh
my, a dark space called Mother Earth.
Forever they lie still until the silver
trumpet call to gather all to His will.
R.I.P. Soldier Friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem