The Landscape of the National Cemetery at Dead Winter

Kinsley Lee

 

The late day of the dead winter, the river flows blue

And from the peak of the hill the cold winds blow this land.

The rain drops on the hills and it be the river and come through,

And it looks as if it surrounds and guards this hollowed land.

 

The fields and mountains lost it’s desolate shape

And when look up the eyes, the tall tower approaches

And far away the buildings the mountains drape

The mists and surround the various city’s torches.

 

The whitish tombstones form the divided queue

Like the honor guards, and like white cap the unmelted snows

Cover the top of the tombstones, at the military review.

And the spectators’re no named blue birds and crows.

 

Always, the tombstones wake up by the morning bugle

And go to bed according to the sounds of the last post.

At midday’s calm, they idle away the new with Purple

Heart, at night dreaming the old days’ guard post.

 

Why they are lying? In this calm and hollowed land,

Left from their lovely family and home town at their young

Days. They must be the bastions for heart of the people in the land,

And always they should be the immortal flares to the young.

 

But now they are forgotten, in still the river is flowing

Like the old days, but the surroundings are changed, lights are glow.

On the both sides of the bridges, and many cars are running

Along the roads, the old form, never people know.

 

What had done in this area? The battles and the blooding,

But they won’t recollect and regard it as the passed, in the history,

But the war’s not the passed by affairs without returning,

If we are forgetting, it can write the horrible new story.

 

Now the winds blow from the river, very cold

As if it awaken the people don’t recollect the old lesson.

On the returning way, the tombstones whisper the old

Stories. “Never forget the history and old lesson!”