The Silent Guns and Scouting Fun
The canvas tents, a khaki tight,
Beneath Corregidor's fading light.
The island breeze, a salty sigh,
A memory beneath that sky.
The echoing silence stark and deep,
Where wartime secrets used to sleep.
A crackling fire, a fragile gleam,
Lost in a half-forgotten dream.
The scent of earth and ocean spray,
Where history lingered come what may.
Learning knots with youthful zest,
On ground where heroes found their rest.
The bugle's call, a morning sound,
Across the hallowed scarred ground.
The flag held high, a solemn grace,
In that historic poignant place.
The mess kit clanging soft and low,
A quiet rhythm to and fro.
The laughter shared, a gentle rhyme,
On land where battles were in prime.
The ghost stories whispered near,
Of spirits held both far and dear.
The twinkling stars, a silent guide,
Where echoes of the past abide.
The camaraderie strong and pure,
On soil that would forever endure.
The shared adventures hand-in-hand,
On Corregidor's historic sand.
The tunnels dark, a chilling breath,
A brush with stories close to death.
The silent guns, a rusting row,
A weight of history soft and slow.
Now years have passed, the island stands,
A testament in weathered hands.
But in my heart, the memories stay,
Of scouting days in that unique way.
A flicker of the campfire's glow,
Where history and boyhood grow.
On Corregidor beneath the sun,
Those early eighties now long done.
©bfa040925
Copyright ©
Bernard F. Asuncion
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