In a home for the aged he sits in the shadows,

           And his thoughts travel back to the friends of his boyhood

           And echo's of laughter ring clear in his mind.

 

           He sees once again their faces before him,

           As they lived for the day, little knowing or caring

           That the threads of their youth would surely unwind.

 

           They were young and unfettered with lifes chain of sorrows

           And they ran like the wind through the summers of childhood

           Heedless of time and their coming of age.

 

           There was no one to warn of the winters before them,

           When the burdens of war would capture their youth

            And no one to hear the cries of their rage.

 

            None to foretell of the guns and the trenches,

            Of the smell of the blood and the fear on their faces,

            And the bullets that took the mates they loved best.

 

            Or of who would return, their boyhood now shattered

            To pick up the pieces of life and move forward,

            And honour each year those gone to their rest.

 

            And the bitter sweet tears of his memories fall slowely,

            Down cheeks that are witthered, on hands that are shaking

            As he weeps for his mates and the carnage of war.

 

            Then softly he sighs as he lifts his head tiredly,

            For he knows they've not gone, only travelled before him

            And he knows very soon he will join them once more.

 

            For life never dies, only changes with time,

            And whatever once was, will be yet again,

            In the circle of life, in the spirit of Man.

 

           Brenda Patterson