On this cold November day
We lay beneath the sod
In foreign fields.
We do not feel the stinging rain
Nor the chill
Of passing winds.
We have not suffered
The ravages of time
Nor suffered sickness to deplete us.
We fell in youth
Bitten sorely
By the leaden hate of powerful men.
We left the love of parents
Far behind
Though love of sweethearts lessened fear.
Now, each year
On this November day
We come alive.
Our souls are lit
And warmed
By your remembrance of our gift.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
