Colin F. Jones
When the baby’s head hit the tree,
‘Twas not the tree that split,
And the soldier he would not agree,
That he was wrong in doing it.
To him it was the thing to do,
And to rape the Mother was better still,
Then afterwards to run her through,
For she was there to rape and kill.
Who would dare at a later time,
To reveal this awful act,
For who would believe that such a crime,
Could be seen as a real fact
But such things occur in every war,
When the innocent are attacked.
Who builds the monuments, for the children then,
Who counts their bodies, that can’t be found,
Who tells the world ,about them then,
Who knows the truth, but makes no sound.
Tis all the glory to the Warriors dead
Who slaughtered, with their guns and shells,
The women and children with whom they bled
And shared their different kinds of Hells.
There is no parade down the city streets,
No cheers that shout “Lest We Forget,”
For the empty tomb where the child sleeps,
Labelled with the memory of “No regret.”
Go bless them all who perished and cried,
Victims of soldiers with vanquished pride.
©Copyright September 5, 2004 by Colin F. Jones
Author’s Note: The above verses relate to the poem called “Happy Valley” and will at some stage be included in that final work. This stuff is not easy to write, but I must pursue it as my mind directs; please forgive me if my words bring you sadness, as they surely bring it to me.