| A wildflower floats aimlessly Through the wind And lands on a cross Of a soldiers name Long forgotten. His cross is poorly made; Two scrap boards and a nail No flowers or pictures, No way to know his name The proof of his existence Sitting there in vain, No friends to come and visit him, No family that cares, This wildflower The only living thing that's been There in years. |
| M.R.B. |
| Victorian Cross |
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