Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

Few lay down to die alone in Vietnam,
As those in Korea’s freeze did waste away,
Or as on the western front and Flanders fields,
Where thousands of bodies wasted did decay.
Across the Belgian Shires before the Hun,
And in the Vineyards of the French demise,
Thousands slowly died from German gun,
That still the echoes are heard of their vain cries.
They were left to die in Spain and Sweden’s streets,
And Italian soldiers bled to death in Rome,
And in the winter snow on the Russia steppes
Millions of valiant soldiers died alone.
But few do cry today nor raise applause
For soldiers now forgotten in distant wars.

~ 2 ~

I to my Fathers war cast all my thoughts,
Not to my own for that is for our sons,
To remember all the wars that we fought,
For they will surely be called to man the guns.
I’ll not sob and cry upon my own war scars,
And insult the dead by weeping for their loss;
We all fought bravely beneath those same stars,
My Father saw and the comrades that he lost.
Let us not weep for soldiers who thus groan,
With greater pity for themselves than those,
Who gave us life by giving of their own,
Giving no such victory to their defeated foes.
I scorn the selfish who pity self and thrive,
On those who died that they might yet survive.