The Shrine

They finished a fine noble monument in our town the other day.
It glistens bright on the village green, in prominent display.

It's a grand and noble structure raised by a grateful land.
Yet I recall a simpler one of steel and wood and sand.

I kept my eyes on our point man. He was the first to go down.
I saw how the bullets spun him and slammed him to the ground.

That night seemed to last forever, but it finally came to an end.
And no longer were some strangers, for each was the other's best friend.

I looked over at the captain, and he silently answered me.
And he took my arm and nodded, then turned so I couldn't see.

So I walked back to our point man, to the place where I saw him fall.
For dawn had brought with it a quiet, with the peace of God and all.

And I covered him with a poncho, and then to be sure he'd be found,
I fixed bayonet to rifle, and shoved it in the ground.

There wasn't much more anyone could do. My tribute seemed a trifle.
So I picked a battered helmet up and placed it on the rifle.

Long years have passed since I saw him fall that cold and frightful night.
Now his name is carved in marble, but something didn't set right.

The helmet on the rifle seemed a far more fitting shrine.
For the rifle was my brother's, and the helmet, it was mine...

©10/25/03 - K.P.S.