This desert – not swirling sands and sculptured dunes
Of storybooks, but stony scrub, the residence
Of small and sudden scuttling things –
Within this desert is a sweet oasis,
Green beyond belief.

A garden, tended and watered constantly,
Where sun burns down upon the monuments
Of national and private grief.

Here lie The Fallen – so many, and so young
The heart is drowned in tears;
Such misery and loss not lessened by the years
As in the graveyards of their home.

New grief springs up, eyes fill and voices break
So resonant with sadness is this place.
And does their sacrifice hold relevance
To what has happened since?

But all around, the desert carries on its crawling life,
And in this small oasis one can only feel
A great despair for all the human race.