The Forgotten Warrior

The wind gently blows on the soft grassy plain,
Caressing the spot where the warrior was slain
Marked with a tomb of long-faded words,
Atop it a statue, wielding his sword...

The bluebirds and robins sing in the sky,
Just as they did on the day that he died
But the sword is long rusted, his name forever lost,
To the rain that erased it, the ice and the frost

But the wind still remembers, and sings it each day,
In its special own quiet, whispering way
And the rustling grass adds its serene choral,
Sometimes with the addition of a lone hooting owl

But still, no one visits him, at his lonely old grave,
Yet people once described him as heroic and brave
They said he was a legend, but they no longer care,
But down in his grave, he remains unaware

Unknowing that his sacrifice, that all of that pain,
Was long since forgotten, and done sadly in vain
That he is remembered by only the wind,
That nobody cares that his story's at an end...