My comrade knows nothing of my woes,
that alone this poor soul must bear,
while on those youthful paths goes
but not with his dear friend to share.
We lived as in a prison sealed,
where nothing but memories come:
not fulfilled, empty, yet revealed,
a pale survivor in his own home.
Please do not say the good are dead,
and are just in some mystic sleep
that now they are in HIS keep,
but the grave is but their bed!
For with offerings to the grave I come,
with flowing tears a grief to make;
My eyes gaze with haze on the tomb
on he who died for our countries sake.
Kind mother of earth at the wall I pray,
whose names in granite etched I weep;
While in your bosom his body lay,
and let him turn to dust while asleep.
All day my fingers trace names not to forget,
every hour my tears turn into a deep rage;
But now some rest my soul will get,
while in some of my comrades a battle wage.
Let my troubled comrades hear words I speak,
and bow before this wall with Marine pride,
silent sit on the walkway with patience meek,
until all touch the names and are satisfied.
For here we find reasons not to spite
just the will to continue with our fight. | |
