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Cut down in youth by firing guns

     Your life came to an end:

A son or daughter, grandchild perhaps;

     A colleague or a friend.

 

Cut down by guns before your time

     You died on foreign soil.

Too young to end your life this way. 

       No life of fun and toil.

 

Cut down before you’ve hardly lived -

     So many young folk died -

And yet, we’re told, you fought a war

     With dignity and pride.

 

You’re gone but not forgotten

      As you’ll live within our hearts,

And buried here with thousands more

      You lie in foreign parts.

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Copyright on all my poems

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