Soldier
I saw in his eyes that a life had been beaten away.
The cigarettes smoked, the shaking hand. A young
man he is but youth had been stripped away. Replaced
by a fierce, trained killer, a calm man he was, well
spoken and polite but kill me he would have if the
order was right.
They train them so hard to defend you and me. But
it's not training I see in his eyes. It's not fear, it's
not lies. A man experienced in what he'd fought
through, we can not comprehend the effect on the
mind that would do. Cold eyes with a smile, with
a shake of the hand. In complete awe I was as he
explained it first hand.
The memory of battle was so evidently raw. I listened,
I listened hard to what he had to say. It moved me to
tears later that day.
With a respect I had not given to any other man, I made
damn sure he knew that he had mine when I said thanks
and shook his hand. On behalf of me and my wife, I said
thanks to a man who had given all that he had, to defend
our way of life.
For this was his belief, he saw it as his calling. To be a
shield between us and terrorists, to be the brave, to
fight for people who can't fight, to be true, to walk into
hell and to fight for me and for you.
A hero he is and will always be. Though humble and
refrained, smoking that cigarette in the rain, carrying
pain as he moved forward with his life. I could see the
battle scars there like they'd just been cut with a knife.
Though so young in age, an elite combat soldier he had
been. Seen things a young mind should never have seen?
It wasn't glory, nor praise wanted by him now. Remembering
his friends dying in such pain, such sacrifice paid for us now.
What made him well-up, what made him speak to me was
hearing the simplest word that all soldiers seek. 'Thanks'.
That's not much for me to say. But him knowing that it was
heartfelt when I said it made him see that their sacrifice
was not in vein.
When I think it's hard living day to day, I will remember
this poem and what is has to say. I will remember the young
man who I met in the cold, with his weary eyes and say
thanks to him again for being so bold. Remember what he
stood for, for what his youth and his friends had died for.
When the embers of their fires finally die, the memories of
a soldier's war will never lie.
Copyright © A Yorkshire Poet | Year Posted 2016
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