I held the soldier's hand
As he laid dying in a foreign land,
He looked at me with all of his fears
Sadly, there was no woman comforting him with her tears.
I asked him if he had any last words
He then talked to me about the bluegrass and the birds,
Soon death would not be an enemy, but a friend
Happily, no more eradication notices would he ever send.
Finally he would be going home
His soul to God, and his body never again sent to roam,
Then I knew that this one soldier was truly lucky
No more sadness, no more pain, and back to Kentucky.
Randy L. McClave
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem