Yesterday America wept. Today  bodies of British servicemen killed in Afghanistan come home for burial. A couple of verses penned by Sir Henry Mortimer Durand during the cold winter of the Second Afghan War capture far better than the measly words of Bush and Blair the stakes for those who do their dirty work. Death is never far away for those who meddle in Afghanistan.

Aye, we have found him, the fair young face

Turned to the pitiless Afghan skies,

The frost bound earth for a resting place,

Dead - with the horror of death in his eyes.

Where the north wind sweeps by the fort o the hill,

And the graves lie thick in the desolate snow,

Follow him lovingly - all who will,

Think of him, grieve for him, once and go.

Go and forget him. You will forget

Ere the first snow melts there, over his head,

And the living must live for thje living - and yet,

It makes one pity the dead.