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THE DYING MAN.
Folder:
Falklands 82 Cold.
Afraid and alone.
Lost in the blankets of darkness.
Life slowly seeps from the wounds.
Where now were my comrades?
Who would now comfort me?
I see my mother’s face
Smell her sweet fragrance.
Her tender embrace,
Brings brief warmth.
But not for my body
Only my soul.
My life is nearly over
Before it has scant begun.
My hopes and aspirations
Ended on this dammed hill.
May 82.
© Jim Love
