A Turkish Boy Surveys the Scene by Zora Cross

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"They were so young," my father says, "so brave --
The whistling brown men from the far away. 
Foemen by Allah! worth a fighting day
As they came up wave on unbending wave. 
Here was a trench once. Now it is a grave. 
They shuffled cards and took war much as play,
Threw ribald words about for hill and bay, 
'Imshi!' 'What price a haircut and a shave!'"

"Anzacs!" they called themselves -- a haunting name.
It seems to hang about the whispering air. 
They stole away like ghosts, and by the sea 
Whence they had come left with their sick and lame. . . .
Why do I hear through phantom tramping there
The sound of men still whistling carelessly?

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 26 April 1938

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on April 26, 2014 7:31 AM.

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