The Soldier’s Rest

The Soldier’s Rest

Wrapped in the dusty sand
A soldier gets his rest 
A red rose on his chest.

His face is young
His eyes are blue
His arms are flung.

A tiny cross in his hand,
His faith is in this land,
Is it a blasphemy?

Mi-day he does not stir
The sun strikes and the red rose,
an amber that glows less brilliantly.

All is quiet around,
Only the sound of flies
That buzz on lazily.

He sleeps till the morrow,
His heart is at peace
He casts no shadow. 
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Fabienne Reynolds
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