A carved stone
marking not the scars
But the glory of the days he lived.
His country’s colours of valliance
Which once covered him
On his last journey
onto here.
The salute of respect
and the honour of heads bowed down
praying him a sound sleep
Above all
– tears of his beloved
whose wailing wont end
as it’s the last
the last touch
the last glimpse…
A war soldier he is
A matyr
who dies to live even longer
carved in the memories
of his motherland.