Colin F. Jones


No flag is draped over her casket,
No bugles are blown for her,
No salute by rifles are blasted,
No ceremonies in colour occur,
No protests no political hype,
No name is etched on a wall,
No details for clerks to type.
None stand by her grave at all.
For she lies in the jungle rot,
Her dead baby clutched to her breast:
Bones bleaching where she was shot,
An innocent victim of war;
Who some soldier will never forget,
Knowing God shared all that he saw.