I’ll remember you, he thinks, and as the gun carriage, with its coffin and its dented helmet pass him by, he closes his eyes.Nothing will bring them back. Not the words of comfortable men. Not the words of politicians. Or the platitudes of paid poets.

I’ll remember you, he thinks, and as the gun carriage, with its coffin and its dented helmet pass him by, he closes his eyes.Nothing will bring them back. Not the words of comfortable men. Not the words of politicians. Or the platitudes of paid poets.

– Anna Hope –

Wake

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