Beneath Italian skies my brother lies,
Amidst the crosses set in rows of white.
East, west, north, and south they rise
In perfect symmetry, gleaming bright.

Beneath grassy green the earth contains,
Nestled in its bosom in restful sleep,
That essence which in this world remains,
Brave ones whose memory crosses keep.

The lined trees, ever green, speak of life.
But the rowed crosses speak still of death,
Bodies torn and broken in midst of strife,
Crosses speak for brave who have no breath.

Beneath Italian skies my brother lies,
His name carved clear on a cross of white.
The quiet beauty of his resting field belies
The enduring tragedy of war's great blight.

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