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Freedom’s hist’ry writ
’Pon Passchendaele’s shell scarred plain.
War’s darkest horrors lit.
Five hundred thousand slain.
Amidst the battles shrieking maelstrom
Drowned in blood stained mud the fusiliers fell.
Death’s scorched breath innocence consumed
That summer’s morn in hell.
‘Neath terror’s limbless charcoaled trees
Heard the injured’s dying bays.
’Twixt the burning stench and acrid breeze
Soldiers’ war torn twisted corpses lay.
On Snowdon’s shadowed pastured slopes,
Morn veiled, rising ’hoppers chirred.
Echoing, black draped silence, bedecked in hope.
A skylark’s piped lament was heard.
A mother’s tears Yr Ysgwrn filled
Cascading through Trawsfynydd deep.
A father’s heart broken, stilled.
Tormented grief pained steep.
At Birkenhead Hedd Wyn rose. The Hero’s pennant flown.
Battle field, recalled, where blood was mixed with rain.
Vacant stood the victor’s bardic throne.
The gentle poet-shepherd slain.