What use are trembling hands,
that may never see their wrists again,
what suicide is this?
For righteousness or folly,
for one solitary man or millions?
The broken bones of youth
are now the ashy faces of the troops
scattered, frantic hearts on
that stretch of Godless sand.
What is one gold star laid low upon this land?
What sniper breathes for this last breath,
what prayers to whisper to ward off death,
a cross so broken, the barbed wire bent
for those sent to Normandy,
whose ghosts
may never make it off that beach.

06/11/2011

Posted on 06/11/2011
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