Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons
Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come
There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many
Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne
No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave
We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -
And the young.
r ~ 11/11/14
In memory of poet
Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918)
and all who gave.
The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month