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Almost that time of year again John, when you showed me your wedding photo in the sanga at Bessbrook. You never got your chance at life and love. I did, and can never forget you, nor the sacrifice you made.
Tears In The Rain
I remember all those years ago, when I was but a child,
Standing there on Belfast's streets, the night was black,
The wind was wild.
And rain poured down upon our heads, our sorry band,
Guardians of a splintered peace,
The death and carnage out of hand.
In Erin's land.
And all the while the glistening streets reflected back the city's light,
The smell of wet, of cold, of winters night.
Sodden combat's clung like glue to wet and frozen legs,
Cars swished by as pubs disgorged their drunken human dregs.
And then a shot, a single sound above the beat of rain,
A shout, a scream, a muffled noise, the panic rose,
Again, again.
We gather round the sodden heap, a brother lost,
A friend asleep,
And as I watched, his life blood ran into the falling rain,
Melting slowly with the flow, returning to the earth again.
I often walk into the rain, and when I do, I see again,
Those tortured faces from the past, the friends now gone,
With peace at last.
And though those times have all passed by,
The tears still come, I walk and cry,
For I cant seem to come to terms with all those things I saw.
And now I cant remember how my life had been before.
It seems as though my time began upon those rain lashed streets
Belfast was my hell on earth, the place where conscious memory meets.
On those black streets.
And as so many years have past, other peoples lives have changed.
They don't recall those troubled times, don't want to know,
Their minds arranged.
The sacrifice that we all made, forgotten now, in misty time.
Broken lives are all that's left, a few words written down in rhyme.
A social crime.
I turn for home, my penance paid, remembering again.
The friends I lost, the life I lost,
With tears in the rain.
Dedicated to the eternal memory of Tpr John Warnock, RTR, killed in action September 4th 1971 aged 18.
Tears In The Rain
I remember all those years ago, when I was but a child,
Standing there on Belfast's streets, the night was black,
The wind was wild.
And rain poured down upon our heads, our sorry band,
Guardians of a splintered peace,
The death and carnage out of hand.
In Erin's land.
And all the while the glistening streets reflected back the city's light,
The smell of wet, of cold, of winters night.
Sodden combat's clung like glue to wet and frozen legs,
Cars swished by as pubs disgorged their drunken human dregs.
And then a shot, a single sound above the beat of rain,
A shout, a scream, a muffled noise, the panic rose,
Again, again.
We gather round the sodden heap, a brother lost,
A friend asleep,
And as I watched, his life blood ran into the falling rain,
Melting slowly with the flow, returning to the earth again.
I often walk into the rain, and when I do, I see again,
Those tortured faces from the past, the friends now gone,
With peace at last.
And though those times have all passed by,
The tears still come, I walk and cry,
For I cant seem to come to terms with all those things I saw.
And now I cant remember how my life had been before.
It seems as though my time began upon those rain lashed streets
Belfast was my hell on earth, the place where conscious memory meets.
On those black streets.
And as so many years have past, other peoples lives have changed.
They don't recall those troubled times, don't want to know,
Their minds arranged.
The sacrifice that we all made, forgotten now, in misty time.
Broken lives are all that's left, a few words written down in rhyme.
A social crime.
I turn for home, my penance paid, remembering again.
The friends I lost, the life I lost,
With tears in the rain.
Dedicated to the eternal memory of Tpr John Warnock, RTR, killed in action September 4th 1971 aged 18.
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