At the end of the road

by | Dec 9, 2006 | Poetry | 0 comments

A house there is at the end of the road,
Where a man does live, he lives there alone.
The garden is wild, the windows are dull,
The curtains have fallen, they sit on the sill,
we would watch him come, then he would go,
With his pack on his back, he would walk down the road,
He’s gone for months, our life goes on,
We’d play in the garden and lye in the sun,
His house is a mess there’s no paint on the frames,
It’s an eyesore to us, while we play our games.

The stranger returned, I knocked on his door,
He welcomed me in, we sat on the floor,
I then complained about the house he lived.
As I turned and looked, he was unpacking his kit,
This man was no stranger; he was a Soldier on leave,
Don’t pity my house; it’s an anchor for me,
With sand in his boots and mud on his back,
He rolled out his bed and ate from a pack,
I come home to rest; my house is not bleak,
The floor is dry; it’s a place I can sleep.

I choose this life, a Soldier am I,
A guardian of freedom, for this I will die,
Don’t cry for me or feel for my plight,
Your future is safe, secure at night,
My life is my bond, loyalty I swear,
Take comfort from this, a promise I declare,
I fight for my country; my God is my friend,
I don’t ask for more, peace I defend,
There are many of us live, at the end of a street,
Don’t judge what you see, wait till we meet.


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