While we forget
About us,
History moves forward
Propelled by so many,
Yet unknown,
Expecting the best.
Future knocks at the door
Of those ignoring
Who wrote it.
And thus lies
The action
Taciturn.
When I die,
Decorate my site
With the swords of
Saint George,
For the fight
I’ve waged.
This poem was published on the Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere Blog.
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