Colin F. Jones


As much as theirs my eyes were savage set,
In tired sockets in a face all wet,
From sweat and rain that hid my pallid skin,
At least from them, though maybe not from him.
Oh yes these gentle eyes in truculent stare,
With squalid rims with horror dwelling there,
Defined the torture in my Warrior heart,
In knowing in me, this was of me a part!
It was not hatred yet a conscious thrill
To satisfy a willing need to kill…
Few do know themselves, who have no scar,
And most who went to war know whom they are.
Yet still, where such eyes meet, there burns a fire,
With those hot flames of courage we admire.