We would never see. Two Novembers that came too soon. And eyes gone mad. We marched on bleeding souls Without compass bearings To show friend or foe Lay this way or that. In the endless labyrinth.
Death wears no insignia.
We lie beneath The drifting leaves of autumn. Years marked by Bugle calls and poppies. We ask for nothing back. Time cannot be returned. For we are the sons and daughters Of Novembers that came too soon.