The Old Man Soldier went into the fog enshrouding the fields of his life not to die there, but like another Old Soldier said...to fade away.
Not the sounds of a militar bugle following his shadow, just a lonely guitar for the only one left behind...

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Dear Southern Belle, my dearest belle,
remembering your delicate face I am,
your eyes fill with tender expectations
looking into mine for the burning fire,
if they find just a little flicker of sadness
in mine, yours, will explode in one smile.

Resting head on the grass, hair, a bush on fire,
parted lips, ears listening to the river’s calm
breathing softly the peaceful Santee breeze,
mesmerized eyes looking at all those stars…
I don’t need to remember you from any picture
because your image are printed in my mind.

Maybe you don’t remember falling asleep,
with me, and old soldier guarding by your side
to let the good dreams to go marching in
and stop the nightmares with all of my heart;
but I do remember your sweet softly breathing,
suddenly the Southern Belle was my little one.

Long alley of magnolia trees by the cotton fields
tired approaching the veranda a man on his ride
Mamee’s little Joshua running to take the horse,
the flurry of lavender petticoats, you are on site,
my soul exploding then with those my feelings,
no departure can ever compete with a comeback.

Home, nomads have no remember of such thing,
soldier’s home are where they stop and stand,
no walls with old souvenirs nor a house warmth,
just a tent planted there, near the “no man’s land”
Reaching that veranda at a long journey’s end
that I saw the alabaster of two welcoming arms.

Sundown by that secret Santee River of ours
where that little son came down from the skies,
maybe naiveté in a world of such hard turmoil
could have made a place for a loved little one
that was conceived with the most tender care
by a Red Haired flame and one Old Brown Eyes.

Memories falling on a yellow paper illuminated
by a candle burning the last inch of its life.
Written words with a quill that shouldn’t write
once all we want to say as abandoned the dark,
leaving something unforgettable to remember,
the sweet memories of two, by the river’s night.

end of the saga

Smoke covering the fields where men felt,
a thousand shrouds made of cruel war fires
still burning in the memory of an old man
looking without fear the face of the end of life,
but with only one regret that lost among magnolias
is the only love he could ever had and it was denied.

Fate, blame fate they will said but all they ignoring
that fate can’t alone arrange all that is of you inside,
or fill the emptiness void that sucks down your heart
to where even light will not be allowed ever to shine;
you can’t take your sword and pierce fate’s heart
nor forget the pain of what is not for you to have.


“Old soldiers never die; they just fade away”
by Gen. Douglas McArthur