Not publication by the earnest few
Of altruistic lives and shining deeds.
Nor probing of the passions and their creeds.
Not Freudian analysis to see
The secret cause, why blood burnt white with rage
And bone and muscle fought to turn a page.
Not vague memorials, with bordered grass
Lapping the white, commemorative walls
Nor gilded tablets hung in village halls.
Not one of these shall bring the nameless back
From distant graves, where each forever lies
Watching the earth with brave, unselfish eyes.
