John reached out with hands
No longer hot with youth,
Touched the ones who had no heat at all,
Touched those youths now buried there
In granite wall,
Chiseled names that stretch beyond mind’s reach
Down the pathway trod by those who live
To rise again where others walked before.
He ran his age-worn fingertips
Along those lives now nought but names,
Tried to feel their hearts
In the deepening dark of dusk
Sun slipping down.
He didn’t die with them,
Almost made it through his wars,
Bowed his head
As one tear slid down across his cheek,
And the cool breeze of summer’s eve
Slid along the surface of this wall
Too smooth with death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem