Poetósfera › La Biblioteca › Elizabeth Gordon
Elizabeth Gordon · Vanguardias / s. XX
inglés
A mother heard the war god call
Her well-loved first-born’s name.
With lips that smiled, but heart that bled,
She heard his dream of fame.
She pinned the colors on his breast
And watched him march away;
The rose they call “The Mother’s Prayer”
Blossomed that fateful day.
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