A soldier stands, proud and stiff,
in the centre of our town,
With a rifle, never to fire again,
with its barrel pointing to the ground.
Through rain, hail, shine and wind,
he reminds us as time passes by,
That life doesn't always go your way,
it's just a beautiful lie.
The plaque that has those 'respectful' words,
moulded in the brass,
Really, doesn't mean anything,
for everyone is the same as the last.
But, for our tall, strong soldier,
and each one of his mates,
Each experience was different,
each with different fates.
Now, we know nothing of this soldier and nothing of his life,
We can only assume, his memories, his fears,
if he had children or a wife.
Maybe, he was just 16,
and needed life's thrill,
Maybe, living on rations was easy for him,
or maybe he couldn't kill.
Maybe, he was 18, his life was just finding its place,
Maybe, he was lost in the mud, unable to be retraced.
Maybe, he was 21, with a sweetheart waiting at home,
Maybe, he had her portrait, resting in his pocket,
along with his watch and comb.
Maybe, he was a young man,
believing a job had to be done,
Maybe, he thought this wouldn't kill me,
this is gonna be fun.
Stone, flesh, soul and pride
Is the legacy of this man,
He's very special to each of us,
cause he helped save our land.
So maybe this soldier is made of rock,
but his life is special and old,
Maybe, this town keeps our eye out for him,
for we know his memories are gold.
By Chloe, Aged 13