The Dying Soldier

I held the soldier's hand As he laid dying in a foreign land, He looked at me with all of his fears Sadly, there was no woman comforting him with her tears. I asked him if he had any last words He then talked to me about the bluegrass and the birds, Soon death would not be an enemy, but a friend Happily, no more eradication notices would he ever send. Finally he would be going home His soul to God, and his body never again sent to roam, Then I knew that this one soldier was truly lucky No more sadness, no more pain, and back to Kentucky. Randy L. McClave