Who will speak for those who nobly died,
And all their unborn years, for us, did yield,
And who will dry the tears of those who cried,
When their men come home not again from the battle field.
They came not home from where red poppies lie,
Dark oceans deep, strange continents afar,
From torrid desert sands, whilst in the sky,
Our young men fought and found their fatal star.
Speak bugles speak, sound out their last retreat,
Call back their spirits to their native shires,
For husbands, fathers, sons our dead complete,
The bells speak out from all the nations spires.
Speak louder still this silence as we stand,
See through unseeing eyes, in mists of yesteryear,
The ghost of comrades in some far distant land,
Who marched with us, but are no longer here.
Take down your memories from the shelf of life,
Know their lives given have enriched our heritage,
But e're you close this chapter of mans strife,
Let slow tears fall on their remembered page.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem