11 Nov 2015

Armistice Day - The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month........




I do not know your name

I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died

Your uniform, branch of service, it matters not to me
Whether Volunteer or Conscript, or how it came to be
That politicians' failures, or some power-mad ambition
Brought you too soon to your death, in the name of any nation

You saw, you felt, you knew full well, as friend and foe were taken
By bloody death, that your life too, was forfeit and forsaken
Yet on you went and fought and died, in your close and private hell
For Mate or Pal or Regiment and memories never to tell

It was for each other, through shot and shell, the madness you endured
Side by side, through wound and pain, and comradeship assured
No family ties, or bloodline link, could match that bond of friend
Who shared the horror and kept on going, at last until the end

We cannot know, we were not there, it's beyond our comprehension
To know the toll that battle brings, of resolute intention
To carry on, day by day, for all you loved and hoped for
To live in peace a happy life, away from bloody war

For far too many, no long life ahead, free of struggle and pain and the gun
And we must remember the price that was paid, by each and every one
Regardless of views, opinions aside, no matter how each of us sees it
They were there and I cannot forget, even though I did not live it

I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died.

Kenny Martin
© 2003




We are the lost who lived and loved
We felt the dawn saw sunset glow
for now we lie in row on row
in Flanders fields

O lux beata lumina

The larks fly high where guns destroyed
Now poppies grow and crosses show
where now we lie in Flanders fields
in row on row

Time like an ever rolling stream
bears all its sons away
They fly forgotten as a dream
dies at the break of day

We shall not sleep who lived and loved
who felt the dawn saw sunset glow
If you break faith with us who lie
in Flanders fields

From failing hands we throw the torch
Our light be yours to hold it high
For now we lie in Flanders fields
in row on row

Poverty, War and St Martin of Tours
An Irishman’s Diary on Martin Doyle, the Victoria Cross winner who joined the IRA - A tale of conflicting and overlapping loyalties

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