The Big Picture

When standing in a foreign meadow facing the end of someone’s rifle, don’t think of me or your England there is a bullet with a name on made with pride; made with skill to kill; you, and when you have indeed fallen an unknown stranger will celebrate with joy just another mother, father’s boy. If for purpose a reason to be born surely it is not to die for someone else’s cause, if this poem does not quite make sense then to die a young man neither! The hand that guides then pulls the trigger; simply just a servant of a mind, of a mind far bigger! © Harry J Horsman 2014