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written by: Eoghan Lyng



They died at Christmas.
Laid in graves, they fell,
Two soldiers who knew no war,
For it is what our generation stood for.
The families cry at Christmas,
Candles in place to call around,
Alit they found, the remnants,
Where presents weaned a life begun.
That sadness comes at Christmas,
Merry the lights lit comfort cold,
Old, a privilege to those in warmer homes,
Known, unknown, within strangers dawn.
The days are short at Christmas,
Like a lifeline ended, mended
On a shawl of gifts, candlelit,
In place of people who came through it.

Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.
Eoghan Lyng

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