Aye, we have found him, the fair young face
Turned to the pitiless Afghan skies,
The frost bound earth for a resting place,
Dead - with the horror of death in his eyes.

Where the north wind sweeps by the fort o the hill,
And the graves lie thick in the desolate snow,
Follow him lovingly - all who will,
Think of him, grieve for him, once and go.

Go and forget him. You will forget
Ere the first snow melts there, over his head,
And the living must live for the living - and yet,
It makes one pity the dead.