November 11th.
Long has young heart in troubled times searched restlessly in boyish dream
For respite from bleak humdrum life, and yearned to surge with flowing stream
Of heady distant enterprise, with music, drums, and marching beat
That thrums with vibrant melody of Nation's fame, not yet complete.
As youth, they’ve seen and heard the cry that raised the heart with heated song
And taken hard by spirit's hand have followed throb of beaten drum;
They’ve watched as iron eked the soul from blood, and sinew, and young eye,
To find that foe, ensnared the same, did heed the same, impassioned lie.
Stone glory waits for eager heart that grasps at thorn of nation's cry
Of perfidy in different hues, or slighted cross in days gone by.
Their due: a bugle’s solemn cry to pierce the feeble morning sun
That sanctifies the futile act and ratifies delusive tongue.
How still the voice of youthful dreams, how silent now the ardent pleas
For reason, in the face of shame which quenched the life from such as these.
They simply stirred to marching beat of nation's drum, and leader's call
For sacrifice, for honour's sake, for pride to go before their fall.
The drum beats now with muffled head while measured tread with halting pace
Bears witness to each widow's song that keens in silent stricken face.
Just memory now young lover's eyes and faint the taste of parting kiss;
Just faded image, left for kin, in treasured place, where mothers wish.
Reg Kear
(c) Australia 1992.
