William N. Janes, Sr

THE COLD

There is a pilot call, and our time it seems to be,
And memories sound and trumpets name what we think we just might be.
Yet we were barely nothing; no victory we could see,
And in our quiet moments we worried most ‘bout me.

But times bring forth a call for us,
And sadly now we see,
Our Brothers lost in time are shared,
To memory yours, and me.

We scarce endure the trials of time,
And know the clock in hours;
And sad we think of those before,
And know the dead as ours.

It’s them we think as heroes;
And them we think as tall,
And even now through all these years,
We know we know ourselves as small.

When winter comes and graves are bleak,
Dead Soldiers know the cold;
And living soldiers know that too,
And simply now grow old.