If they knew from that eternal vacuum
of dark foreboding dreaded by those
still living would it give them any comfort
that their willingness to fight for the liberty
security and safety of others which cost
them their future that on the eleventh hour
of the eleventh day of the eleventh month
the solemn ritual dedicated to remembrance
would see the world pause to honour them?
From the Great Beyond would the world
hear that low moan, a shudder of regret
intermingled with the agony of knowing
their sacrifice won a brief interlude before
the next war arose? Cold comfort indeed.
We have broken faith with those who died.
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