Theres a lonely stretch of hillocks:
Theres a beach asleep and drear:
Theres a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken trampled graves:
And a little rotting pier:
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
Theres a torn and silent valley:
Theres a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth.
There are lines of buried bones:
Theres an unpaid waiting debt :
Theres a sound of gentle sobbing in the South.
Anzac Covewritten by
© Leon Gellert