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Casualty of War

A Mother's Pain

by John Kent
So fine a day
as he is laid to rest
within the bosom of the earth;
uniforms so smartly pressed
and rifles pointing to the sky
sound sharply in the morning air.
Old Glory fine and neatly creased
in angles so defined,
held in purest, whitest gloves,
placed gently in her hands;
sounds the haunting roll of Taps,
float o'er the crosses and the stone,
of those who died
for love of country and for home.

His heart once vibrant,
bursting youth
and mother gathers up her tears,
whose womb sent forth
the gift of life;
suckling at her tender breast,
drew forth the milk of warmth and love;
holds to her heart the folded flag,
the memory of her bond; her son,
not fully grown to manhood yet
but made a man on fields of death.
And as Taps sounds its final note
and echoes over solemn field,
she hears the words, cries her tears;
her flesh, her blood, beloved son,
lives only in her memories now.

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