Where White Crosses Grow

Rows and rows and rows of white crosses, Like sentinels -stone-fixed to the ground. The wind like a shroud wraps around them, Enshrining each space where they're found. Stone guardians stand at attention, Into the distance -row after row. O' mourn those hallowed internments, Where our heroes are resting below. Rows and rows and rows of white crosses, With their numbers increasing with years. And graves that are drenched by the weeping, Will never run dry of our tears. Now the soil is the dead's lonely blanket, Below - and everlasting - at rest. Those keepers -yes -all those white crosses, Announcing -'Here lie the Best of the Best.' Rows and rows and rows of white crosses, All those warriors were yields of our lives. And the harvest of what all wars cost us, Are plowed under and nothing survives. There is green lawn laid like a carpet, That covers our heroes repose. Outstreched are the arms of the crosses, In a garden where nothing else grows.