DEATH OF A P.O.W.
After more than thirty years
the cell house doors are now unlocked
And the weapons of the armed guards
are unloaded and uncocked.
The marks scratched in the red mud floor
are no longer sharp and clear
The bamboo cage is rotting;
and huge rats no longer feared
Steel manacles on wrists and ankles
are long corroded by brown rust
And dreams of freedom's flavour hide
under blankets of timeless dust.
This loved and loving human
who never made it home from War
Lived and died with a cross marked name
inscribed upon a Wall
For all time past and present,
and for all time yet unborn
Cries of this forgotten soul will sound
in those who dare to mourn.