The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
They say: We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours, they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.
My son is only back from Afghanistan for less that a month. We feel blessed. Many he served with did not return. I feel torn because I am a lucky Mum. For just a moment, please, set aside a space in your heart to honour our sons and daughters who have fallen for us, in this war and the so many wars that have come before.