A nation mourned:
A tear in every eye, hands held out,
Soft words, “Your loss is ours too.”
No time for private grief.
Unknown to all a soldier dies on remote hills:
A martyr lives in public space,
His last journey
A gauntlet run through
Salutes and bugles, wreaths and garlands,
For final return to bosoms
Of Mothers and Wives, Fathers, Siblings, Sons.
A nation mourns:
Martyrs’ names a lost memory,
Wreaths and salutes to unknown faces
While a nation works and plays;
No more tears, gone the consoling hands;
A private grief in
Breasts that live the loss,
Eyes that still search for
Heroes who died
Once on hills, once in hearts.
The feeling that goes into yr every poem is so intensic that makes the one who reads, feel the depth of yr soul and the depth of your pain. tell me something, does writing relieve yr pain?
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