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Some folk might want tissues while reading this little ballad. |
The soldier lies a'dyin', now and doesn't feel a need to say 'goodbye' to comforters nor those who made him bleed. Though gratitude perfects his soul, he never can repay the ones who held him close nor those who sent his life away. He lived and fought as now he fights to find a way to live, and now he lies a'dyin' here with nothing left to give. A curtain opens quietly. Perhaps they bring his shroud, for only dying lie in here and life is not allowed. He feels a weight upon his chest. Perhaps the end has come. His muscles feel the gentle weight, his heart completely numb. The soldier who lies dyin' here with nothing left to give, accepts the touch of hands of one who still has life to live. A warmth begins to ease his pain and brings a little strength. He senses some great pow'r is near and turns his head at length. He opens weak and weary eyes to see a village lad beside his bed with toy in hand in tattered garments clad. The toy and garments seem to him incongruous at best, and yet he knows this waif whose hand now rests upon his chest. The boy is one whose village died when hit by mortar fire; the boy to whom he gave the toy and pulled him from the pyre. The soldier hears the murmured plea, "Please, Joe. Keep living still." He tries to give a weakly smile, and tells the boy, "I will." He thinks about the boy he saved from death which others bring; and thinks of all the times he failed, "Not one means one damn thing." The soldier who recovers now, owes life to one success and one small boy and loving plea --- and to one failure less. |