Alex Roissetter

THE BRASS CROSS

Far away there is a cross of brass,
That stands at the mouth of hell,
For that fight right now,
With the names of those that fell.

Before this cross kneels a soldier,
As if in solemn prayers,
Whispering simple words,
For brothers that have climbed heavens stairs.

After the deed is done he rises,
And looks far along the floor,
Across another repatriation,
Of the most recent soldier killed in this war.

Another man arrives at the cross,
With an engraver in his hand,
To scribe the last name on the plaque,
His knees burning in the sand.

His work now finished he rises and looks,
With a tear in his eye,
Then turns to the soldier and says,
“That’s another heroes’ goodbye.”

The soldier gives a single nod,
And goes to walk away,
Each step a painful limp,
Because there is nothing else to say.

With one glance back towards the cross,
He arrives at the shade,
And at the scribes complete surprise,
The soldier begins to fade.

The man alone in his shock,
Glances where the soldier was before,
And no matter how hard he looked,
Where no footsteps on the floor,

With a shiver he looked across the field,
In the middle of the day,
Over the soldiers repatriation,
The Last Post begins to play.