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Sunday, January 15, 2012

The Last Thing



After their meager
Wartime rations
Left them wasting
From hunger,

After their crops
Shriveled to dust
In the summer swelter
For the third year in a row,

After their only son
Met immortality
At the end
Of a sniper’s rifle,

After every drop of sorrow
In their souls has been shed
And hope has faded
From their barren lives,

The last things
They have left
Are their laughter
And each other.

3 comments:

Mary said...

Wow, Mary! I am sure this poem expresses the sentiments of many people who lived back then; but probably even today some people have lost almost everything except their laughter! Thanks for jamming here.

Enchanted Oak said...

You nailed me at the rooster crow and kept on going. Very strong.

Margaret said...

... the last things...

My oh my how strong they were.