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Gifford Wherry

Silence

The guns of war are silent now,
the cannon lie in rust.
The living have gone home to live,
the dead returned to dust.

No soldiers cross the battlefield,
no bugle sounds retreat.
No adjutant's call, no none at all,
No gunfire in the street.

At times I hear the bugle call,
at times I hear the drum.
At times I hear their marching feet,
at times I hear them come.

Some disappeared in battle,
some walk with crutch or cane.
Some try to push the hurt away,
some died, but not in vain.