Courtesy of Others ~
For Sean Cook
Far from his home, on far-stretched sand.
The burning sun doth scorch and shine.
The horror of empty hours humbles him.
Oh to fight, to kill, and feed one's rage!
But diligently, he drones away at his duties.
To fight for fame, is not every man's fate.
He reads, and writes, and kinfolk remembers,
Oh to hug, to hold, his family at home!
His wife and children miss him and mourn.
They're aware always of his long absence,
And await his return with unreserved hope.
Longing for the man and father they love.
Alone in the desert, a land dry and dead,
His Gods and Ancestors, his unseen guards.
The heathen's heart remains strong and hale.
He is never forgotten by his faithful friends.
Mark Ludwig Stinson
Temple of our Heathen Gods
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