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How quiet is this sombre room.
No roses leave their sweet perfume
Where spiders weave their octave loom
And errant sunbeams pierce the gloom.
The coat, the shoes, the favourite chair
The brush still tangled with his hair
The quilt mildewed , the rug threadbare
Nothing touched since he left them there.
Slumbered there our dear boy's head.
"I hear the call to arms" he said.
Now he sleeps in a different bed
His battle jacket stained with red.
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Author Notes
This was written after hearing of a family who on hearing the tragic news of their son's death on the battle field, closed the door of his room and never entered it except on his birthday and the anniversary of his passing.
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©
Copyright 2024.
Cass Carlton
All rights reserved.
Cass Carlton
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