Far away there is a cross of brass,
That stands at the mouth of hell,
A symbol of the fight,
With the names of those that fell.
Before it kneels a soldier,
As if in solemn prayer,
Whispering simple words,
For brothers that have climbed heavens stair.
After the deed is done he rises,
And looks far along the floor,
To another repatriation of,
The most recent soldier killed in war.
Soon another man arrives,
With an engraver in his hand,
To scribe the last name on the plaque,
His knees burn in the sand.
His work then finished he rises and looks,
With a tear in his eye,
Then turns to the soldier and says,
“That’s another heroes’ goodbye.”
The soldier gives a single nod,
And goes to walk away,
Each step a painful limp,
Because there is nothing else to say.
With one glance towards man and cross,
He arrives at the shade,
And at the scribes complete surprise,
The soldier begins to fade.
The man alone in his shock,
Stares where the soldier was before,
And no matter how hard he looked,
Where no footsteps on the floor,
With a shiver he looked across the field,
In the middle of the day,
Over the soldiers repatriation,
The Last Post begins to play.