The 200^th British soldier killed in Iraq.

How can I be useful, of what service can I be? Vincent Van Gogh

 

Weather brings rain

and smells of death

and the promise of roses

and the moon throws its beams

    over empty ground.

 

A cold wind plays around

and trunks bow their heads

and flowers lives in poverty

and a lone bird mourns

    for everything that's lost.

 

It's late but I can't sleep

and think of desert heat,

and think of our soldiers

and they dream of home

    their bright uniforms.