We spoke, we chose to speak of war and strife

- A task a fine ambition sought -

And some might say, who shared our work, our life:

That praise was dearly bought.

Drivers, interpreters, these were our friends.

These we loved. These we were trusted by.

The shocked hand wipes the blood across the lens.

The lens looks to the sky.

Most died by mischance.

Some seemed honour-bound

To take the lonely, peerless track

Conceiving danger as a testing-ground

To which they must go back.

Till the dry tongue fell silent and they crossed

Beyond the realm of time and fear.

Death waved them through the checkpoint.

They were lost.

All have their story here.