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A tribute to the fallen

Old Guy

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Echoes

Silent are the foreign fields
where they fought and fell.
We kneel beside their quiet graves
and recall the past we shared.

Reflections seen in running water,
footprints etched in virgin snow.
Remnants lodged in memory,
hidden in the mists of time.

Names carved into deep black stone,
anointed with our touch and tears.
Hear the plaintive tone of trumpet,
fleeting echoes of our friends.


:salute:

© JR Hume, 2001,
  revised 2006
 
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