Tonight, we mourn our dead. Those brothers
Who still lie; wrapped in camo shrouds
Beneath Rhodesian soil.

Chase those strangers out; bar the door
Charge your glasses, wait while those murmurs die away.

Argent; Arvic; Homan; Brading.
These are my dead.
Lost in ambush, mine, attack
In a time when a flag
Flew green and white
In a land which is no more.

I drank with them
In Rhodesian days, before
We trekked to foreign lands.
I drink to them now.
Argent, Arvic; Homan; Brading.

You too, all have your dead
Who still laugh and shout
In the dim, far reaches of your mind.
Name them. Let their shades walk free
Tonight. We mourn our dead.


This page last modified on Sunday, 12 May 1996
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