A lament

-
They are gone now
into rich earth,
made richer still,
by this addition to her.
Yet, play on, soft pipes,
for more are yet to come,
those oft unremembered,
under tombstone dwelled.
Their bones are yours, earth,
but their stories are for us,
to cherish and remember,
like the sweet smell of spring begun.
And odes will be written,
as oft as their tales forgot.
Smile, mother, for those brave
children you've begot.
When the world stills,
in silent prayer, heads bowed,
give shine to their medals,
give voice to their tales, told and untold.
For we are but the pale shadows,
of those who've moved mount and hill.
Living like automatons, remembrancers
of those who truly have said to have lived.

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