James H. Smith


The young soldier lay twisted on the ground;
The rattle of death making an awful sound.
His words as he reached out were, “Mother, take my hand.”
But his mother was not there, she was home in a far off land.
Only I, to take his hand, a stranger in this forgotten place
He looked at me, whispered, “Mother…” as he looked at my face.
Then he smiled and dropped my hand;
This soldier, no more to walk this land.