TERRANCE FRANK LAZAROFF, CD, BFA

A Beach in France 

I run towards death this day.

Fear, screams of pain,

And mangled bodies,

They will not block my way.

I steel my heart against the terror,

And turn my back against the horror.

Death is not my fear.

It is the life of my comrades that I hold dear.

I charge my enemy.

His artillery flashes,

His guns pierce the air,

Courage is my academy.

My weapon, I must point at man,

And spread his blood upon this sand.

Charging the beach, I am losing my breath.

I must reach the wall, or face my death.

My men fall dead at my feet.

Fountains of flesh fill the sky,

And the eighty-eights,

Keep the beat.

Bunkers to my left, spew hell on earth.

This run will not be over, until I prove my worth.

The hill in front with tall wavy grass,

I climb it first, I cannot be last.

We must rid this place of Satan’s sting.

So violent,

He will cut us down,

And force us to kiss his ring.

Not I,

Is my response,

For the fear death,

I will not ensconce.

I call for my cannons,

Place my mortars.

The enemy cries out,

To give no quarter.

The man with the purple stole came by to speak with me.

You are a brave,

And courageous man,

Who through adversity,

Stood and fought

Hold true to your belief,

And for your brothers departed, do not grieve.

You too, will soon be in the light.

This battle will no longer be your fight.

My body, cold, was found the morning after.

I had reached the sand, next to the trees of steel.

It was there,

I made my stand.

I gave my all, but was stopped.

By an arrow of chance,

At the water’s edge,

On a beach in France.