USMC 2571
02-19-18, 07:31 AM
Ghost from Iwo Jima
Lon Woodrum
Leatherneck Magazine
Gyrene Gyngles
October of 1968
The living warrior never said
The things that burned within his head:
The word was uttered by the broken dead.
I died at dawn, bent toward a thunder island,
Wallowing upon gun-gutted sand
I could not sleep in that strange land;
I have returned to New York towers,
New England hills and Kansas plains;
To gentle towns with quiet hours
And temples singing in the sun..
.I have returned with one desire:
To see what you have done
With what I bought upon that strip of fire.
Red ran my blood
Upon a beach whose name I scarcely knew:
So men could speak aloud their dreams
and hopes before a crowd,
Or pray their prayers to God,
And not be stood before a firing squad.
And it was not alone for Yanks I fell;
It was for Britons, French, Chinese,Israelis, Africans and Poles;
For all the disinherited, tormented souls
In all the agonizing earth and sea
Scarred by the boots of tyranny.
And all the clever tongues have lied
Who said it was for Less than this I died.
The little people of the world looked
And watched me running where the red beach shook;
The little broken, beaten brothers;
The homeless children and their mothers;
The noble men reduced to less than tramps
Who rotted in the concentration camps;
The keepers of the truth...
they stood that dawn
And shouted silently, "Go on! Go on!"
For they all knew, oh, they knew why
I had to run across that beach and die.
I could not sleep in that far land;
I have returned to where your cities stand,
Unwounded;
to your churches on the sleepy street,
And golden miles of unhurt wheat.
I have returned to hear the laughter in your children's throats
And watch the little people cast their votes.
I have come back to see what you who live
Have done with what I died to give.
The living warrior had not said
The things that burned within his head:
The word was uttered by the broken dead
------------------------------------
Lon Woodrum
Leatherneck Magazine
Gyrene Gyngles
October of 1968
The living warrior never said
The things that burned within his head:
The word was uttered by the broken dead.
I died at dawn, bent toward a thunder island,
Wallowing upon gun-gutted sand
I could not sleep in that strange land;
I have returned to New York towers,
New England hills and Kansas plains;
To gentle towns with quiet hours
And temples singing in the sun..
.I have returned with one desire:
To see what you have done
With what I bought upon that strip of fire.
Red ran my blood
Upon a beach whose name I scarcely knew:
So men could speak aloud their dreams
and hopes before a crowd,
Or pray their prayers to God,
And not be stood before a firing squad.
And it was not alone for Yanks I fell;
It was for Britons, French, Chinese,Israelis, Africans and Poles;
For all the disinherited, tormented souls
In all the agonizing earth and sea
Scarred by the boots of tyranny.
And all the clever tongues have lied
Who said it was for Less than this I died.
The little people of the world looked
And watched me running where the red beach shook;
The little broken, beaten brothers;
The homeless children and their mothers;
The noble men reduced to less than tramps
Who rotted in the concentration camps;
The keepers of the truth...
they stood that dawn
And shouted silently, "Go on! Go on!"
For they all knew, oh, they knew why
I had to run across that beach and die.
I could not sleep in that far land;
I have returned to where your cities stand,
Unwounded;
to your churches on the sleepy street,
And golden miles of unhurt wheat.
I have returned to hear the laughter in your children's throats
And watch the little people cast their votes.
I have come back to see what you who live
Have done with what I died to give.
The living warrior had not said
The things that burned within his head:
The word was uttered by the broken dead
------------------------------------