Uncle Ernie. Damascus.
He died at age just twenty three,an uncle never known to me.
He died in blistering desert sands,
I'll never know just at who's hands
They died in the name of democracy,
their graves visited only by aristocracy.
Their familes too poor to visit abroad,
but memories and grief in hearts were stored.
His mother and sisters never saw his grave,
they suffered in silence, heartbreakingly brave.
The war office sent his belongings home,
my grandma unpacked them - all alone.
His pay book, tobacco, and some clothes,
his razor, heartbreaking, heaven knows!
And from his wallet, true as I stand,
there fell just a few grains of desert sand.
His sister, my mother, now old and so frail,
with tales of her brother still me does regale.
Feelings of anger, sadness and woe,
for us all these brave men their lives did forgo.
A burden of sorrow for families to share,
and a grave with no visits, or anyone to care.
Damascus is where he has lain all these years,
his sister, though old, is still shedding tears.
Poetry by normalil
Read 1125 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2008-12-19 at 15:19
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Damon |
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ngaio Beck |
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Damon |
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normalil |
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Editorial Team |
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John Lambremont, Sr. |
