Sounds of Distant Drums

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First-light breaks upon a sea of white crosses,
Sun heats the mist on loved ones sad loses,
Each white cross marks one slumbering soul,
Soldier’s remains beneath green grassy knoll,

If crosses could speak, what a tale they could tell,
Of life in the trenches; mud, trench-rot, pure Hell.
Denouncing the evils of war… if only they could.
In Flanders, Siegfried Line and Delville Wood.

War torn Europe becomes a Second World War,
Every day darker, and the crosses grow more.
Men who hate wars are taught how to fight,
Hammer to the anvil, they do it with might.

Men dying for their country, medals on chest;
Either sides claiming, that they were the best.
And the crosses increase at a deplorable rate,
All fueled by man’s greed, cruelty and hate.

Korea, Rhodesia, South Africa, Vietnam.
How many more white crosses Uncle Sam?
As brave men and women in Afghanistan,
Return home statistics of man’s evil plan.

Sacrifices remembered by a token white cross,
And red Poppies worn to honor their loss…
But when will the last white cross be planted?
Only when man’s inhumanity to man is halted.

By Alf Hutchison.


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