Béal na mBláth

Béal na mBláth I often wonder how that young Private felt,when he saw the blood flow from Collins,to mingle with the dirt in Beal na mBláth,struck down by a ricochet,the echoes still reverberating,ringing through the decades.

Soldier Still

Soldier Still See the reverent hands unfold the cloth,medals laid with old memories to rest,blanketed in a white shroud,serving to muffle the scraping sounds,like April's soil absorbed the impact of screeching mortars.

Guard

Guard. As the rain it fell,they stood in silent sentinel,youth whose life barely fills a page,for those, alas, who will never age,most gave their life on foreign soil,where the cedar bleeds or in Katangian dust.

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