The Men Who Have No Name
In woods of dark
heart beating against the pine needle floor.
He is there, in sunlit place, marching up in haste,
up a sloping green meadow.
With the bend of my finger,
gliding metal hurries intensely for a private embrace.
in autumn mourning.
Through the looking glass, I cannot see reproachful eyes,
Therein meadow, blood red poppies blow,
A soft wind carries off a nameless soul.
—Staff Sgt. Christopher M. Rance, U.S. Army
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