How did I talk to 22 year-olds,
using the radio to bring
them back from night raids?
Those who flew the ghost ships
from England to Germany
and almost back to base-
the gray metal allowed bullets
to pass right through.
The Army used women to coach
the young sailors of the sky home.
Sort of a siren's call-
many died on the rocks or in the sea.
The last boy was no easier than the first.
I cried for silenced voices, not people I knew.
The pain hung from the airwaves
the stillness whispered another was gone.
Who helped me through the tears-
the laughter, prayers and screams?
Glenn Miller stroked my temple
with his wax trombone
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well conceived and elegantly brought forth with insight. Thanks for Sharing Kent.