Boots

Boots

The rifles held in still salute
Erupt three times in unison
As tribute to the deaf, the mute,

The dead; the fallen sons who
Looked at death yet could not shun
A rifle.  Held in still salute,

The mothers bid their boys adieu
While ribbons in their windows hung
As tribute.  To the deaf, the mute,

Comes quiet slumber – payment due
To them for lives that ended young,
And rifles held.  In still salute,

With simple grief and small ado
Their brothers whom they died among
Pay tribute to their deaf, their mute.

Between two torn and empty boots
A canted helmet rests upon
A rifle held in still salute
As tribute to the deaf, the mute.

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