posted on Oct, 12 2015 @ 11:07 AM
4. A PLACE IN THE SUN
These simple things that I have learned to love,
Are better far than things I used to know.
The smell of new turned earth, the trees, the sky above,
The joy of watching a self planted garden grow.
Fool, that I was, in thinking, just last year, that I could find true happiness in town;
In parties, in women, wine, so called good cheer,
I thought perhaps my troubles I could drown.
Those weekends when we drank until the dawn,
Made drunken love and sang our silly songs!
Lay, repulsively half naked on the lawn,
And thought ourselves contented, like the throngs
Of pleasure, mad fools all gathered there like sheep,
Too busy at their futile play to note
The moon above the trees begin to creep,
Shyly, in its pale, star spangled, cloudy coat.
No more synthesis pleasure will I seek,
Tis' all a disillusionment, I find.
I want the whispered secrets of a creek,
The soft caressing breeze to soothe my mind.
I want the tang of woodsmoke in the night,
The warm sun's rays on naked back and thigh.
The ever changing, awe inspiring sight,
Of sunset, with its flaming golden sky.
All these I love and want, but they would fall
Short, life would be incomplete,
Were you not there with me to share it all.
To make them still more perfect, still more sweet.
We two, the simple things, the quiet content
That comes from peace of mind,
A job well done, will make our lives, our happiness,
So heaven sent, so easy
- just a place in the sun.
Written by Maurice Peter Hathaway
(R.A.R depot - Borrowdale Salisbury Southern Rhodesia - January 1944
5. THOUGHTS IN AN ATTACK
Why do I do these things?
I do not want to die!
I have my life before me,
And I want to try
To make it something,
However small or unworthy it may be
And yet I lie here, amidst this filth,
Shivering and sick and scared.
The stench of death permeates the air, the
Comrade next to me chokes,
At last he's free.
Merciful death rattles in his throat.
What has he done, this youth so fair
To merit this foul agony?
The barrage lifts and I go forward
In a stumbling run!
The man before me gives a cry
Of sheer, stark pain,
And crumbles at my feet,
And writhes and mouths inhuman.
And yet again say I,
Why? Why? Why?
Written by Maurice Peter Hathaway - 1944
(Thank you for you comments and interest guys! Keep it up! More to follow tomorrow.)