Colin F. Jones


Beside a deep dark hole a patch of light,
reflects the suns sad face upon the steel
that, like a torch, reveals the fatal fight,
for the wound beneath the hole will never heal.
The buzz of flies refrain the hymn of death,
as the soldiers body rots and wastes away,
the echo of his scream caught on his breath,
still vibrant in the shattered air of day;
and men with vermilion crosses on their arms,
with haggard faces hung from rounded backs,
uniquely gifted with an Angels charms,
carefully fill their body bags and sacks.
While they work their hearts in silence cry!
“Oh God! Oh God! Why did they have to die?”