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Thursday, June 04, 2009

 

Rifleman Cyrus Thatcher killed in Afghanistan





Read this

You, with your neat picket fence and freshly mown lawn.
Where only the occasional daisy pokes through.
Sedately content you survey your domain.
While I, ignored by the passing thrall, I sit on this dusty plain
My withered limbs say it all, too sick to move I await Kismet.
As far as the eye can see, caught in the dying sun’s rays
The glint and glitter of the death that surrounds me
Thousands of miles away you decide my fate.
‘Tis not gold that’s a lying, but the brass casing’s
Left in pitiful piles from the lead that’s been flying
Too scared to close my eyes should I not wake.
The sky fills with death while the ground trembles
No trace they’ll find of my insignificant bones
Ramadan’s done, ‘Tis the time of Christ.
All this while you reach for your morning coffee.
As I lay dying on the road to Kandahar

James Love

Comments:
Tis not gold that’s a lying, but the brass casing’s
Left in pitiful piles from the lead that’s been flying
Too scared to close my eyes should I not wake.
The sky fills with death while the ground trembles

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