He’s well past his middle age and his hair is stony grey
and he’s learned to take the world on day-by-day,
but he thinks back to days of yore, quiescent peace and times of war
when he, among many others, did their bit.
They don’t boast of those gory times
but rather reflect upon the signs, that
took them into unremitting war, with a hope that you will not see
man’s inhumanity, when man is absolutely certain he is right.
He fought to preserve a way of life uniquely ours,
defending it from the imposition of dictatorial powers.
It was him, the common man, who saved the beloved land
not the politicians who sent him out to the fight.
Yet, there are no statues to Moses, nor Frikkie or John;
men you’ve never heard of, but were called upon
to stand between the country and the foe,
and now lay side-by-side, in some foreign field, row on row.
Another generation is at the battlefront, fighting anarchy
has the world deserved the freedoms bought earlier, by warriors such as he?
More young men will never see their dreams fulfilled;
they are fallow pastures still untilled, dusk for them has fallen.
Dusk for him is certain, as is the promise of eternity.
The time draws near to let go the bonds of mortality
and, when they are broken, will this nation proudly say
‘A Soldier, a soldier, died this day?’