I can never put myself in his boots,
The one buried here when he no longer marched;
He lies now among the greenest shoots,
Having long been drenched, frozen, or parched.
He must have fought knowing his fate,
That he could die and decay where he did stand,
While, guarded by him, we did bloviate,
Of not ceding a drop of water, a speck of sand.
As he strove, living breath by breath,
He can't have hoped for even a wreath of flowers;
Shielded by him from that shadow of death,
We waged wars of words from our ivory towers.
What made him protect us, me and you,
Then, the now son-less father, father-less son?
What he did, why can't we hope to do?
What into his genes could nature have spun?
We shall know of the battles he fought,
His name, rank, awards, from his tombstone;
Yet, whether he is identified or not,
To us the soldier will always remain unknown.
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