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John F McCullagh
Poems
Feb 2013
Taps, Gettysburgh, the second day
Taps
The smell of cordite fades
as the day declines to dusk.
the reek of iron rises
From brave men who'll soon be dust.
A solitary bugler,
Plays a mournful song;
Serenades the fallen
Two short notes, then one long.
The sinking Sun is fiery red,
Like Mars, the god of war.
The honored dead?
Not one of them
Recalls what they died for.
Written by
John F McCullagh
63/M/NY
(63/M/NY)
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