If, in some deep, unthought of place,
The dead could congregate with grace,
They'd shuffle, wartorn, young and old,
All breathless in the dusty cold,
Of every race, creed and kin,
Whatever the shade of their frozen skin,
Regardless of their spoken tongue
And whether they died old or young,
Unifromed, suites and gowned,
Could they find a common ground?
Although they may not all have met,
Each heart is full of fond regret,
Their bodies drained of lively heat
And every heart has ceased to beat,
Each face, scarred, muddied or pristine,
Is riddled with the same pale sheen.
Would they watch us all, alive,
Laugh at each endearing strive,
At each unnecessary breath,
At those, obviously out of their depth,
Pass judgement us, dull and clever
And gossip of their own endeavour,
I wonder would they lightly chatter
Of drug research and a machine gun's clatter,
Of love and life and slow demise,
Of a light now faded from their eyes,
Of pets and wives and a wedding day
For as they all have passed away
They may just speak the same tongue now,
Two soldiers might shake hands, somehow,
Perhaps they're equal in that cold, damp must
Like ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.
That's pretty amazing! It's a beautiful poem, Charliebo, and one you should definitely be proud of.