Folktale

Boots resting beneath the bed,
Tells a stories of folks
I never met, who walked on the soil from where he passed.
All this dirt now sits peacefully in my fancy carpet,
I cannot get it out of it.

His helmet and the dents in it, tell a different tale,
Mud that made its home in his nails,
Scratches on his face added beauty to the flowers that lay, on his chest,
And here I pay my respect to you Sir.
You are out of all the bombs and blasts
All the tunnels and dark nights,
Out of the sight of hunters.

You can sleep here in soft soil,
And no time your mother would come to take you,
And you would be running towards her, open arms
Like a child going home after a long day at school.