Monument to the Unknown Soldier

He stands there, carved in granite chill,
outlined against the sky.
He had to fight, against his will:
to live, only to die.

Alone there in cold autumn rain,
he stands aloof and proud:
he wears a look of death and pain,
with fallen leaves his shroud.

Still, his head is held up high,
determined is his chin.
His eyes look far, beyond the sky:
on his lips, a cynic’s grin.

For when he heard his country call,
to a foreign land he came;
and hard he fought, at last to fall
where no one knew his name.