On this cold and wintry morning,
The cold Arctic winds are blowing.
Heavy clouds roll on and on,
Grey upon grey like a never ending song.
Row by row, the soldiers stand quietly,
And a mixed crowd whispers impatiently.
An airplane appears in sight,
Everyone seem to be wound up tight.
Their hearts beat wildly in this instance,
The military plane drowns the silence.
It taxis to a stop in front of the stand.
Eternity it seems has come to an end!

The door flings open, all eyes are staring,
The mind struggles to control the emotions, baring.
Not a sound or whisper is in the air,
All eyes are on two red maple leaf draped caskets stare.
Each hoisted on shoulders of eight good men and women.
The Princess Patricia Canadian Light Infantry is the regiment.
Holding their heads up high, proudly,
A strain can be seen on all the brave faces, naturally.
The traditional bagpipes mourn and cry for its fallen.
Tears like dews roll down and sadness for young lives stolen.
Puzzled and with curious faces the younger children watch.
Slowly down the rampway the soldiers march.

You could have chosen anything, but the military.
You replied, ‘Afghan is calling and I am not sorry’.
I pleaded and begged you to be anything but the military.
You said, ‘I had chosen a nobler profession’ on the contrary.
Fighting for the freedom and rights of all,
Following the glorious many and the bagpipes call.
It is my duty to answer and be counted.
Diepe and Passchendaele are our valiant history proudly recorded.
But this one is not your battle I beg to disagree!
With firm conviction and resolve you answered me.
Death is not an end but like a stargate to worlds unknown.
Afghanistan, Afghanistan, you have taken the bests, my very own.

Many corporations are getting rich by your sweat and blood, I fear.
Some politicians, they give you second hand military gears,
Rented vehicles, helicopters and cargo planes.
And after you are dead they will all say, it’s a shame,
Our prayers and thoughts are with you and your family.
It sounded mechanical and hollow to us, honestly.
Who feeds you all that rhetoric and screwing up your mind?
They are the ones who change their minds with a flick of a dime.
Some politicians, who are back at home, safely,
Eating plumb turkeys, potatoes and gravy,
Brussel sprouts, cranberry sauces and pumpkin pies.
Sipping wine and dripping on their clothes and ties.

Canada, oh my Canada, it is plain to see,
What have you brought home to me.
Sons and daughters with blood on Afghan sands,
Two bodies to bury on this frozen land.
Twinkling lights on houses and trees with hanging fairies,
A season to be merry and I am supposed to be cheery.
I have traded poinsettias for wreaths,
Dinner table laughter for overwhelming griefs.
Presents wrapped and ribboned yuletide baskets,
For two draped red maple leaf caskets.
Sweet carols and noels for a bagpipe mourns,
Manger stories for eulogies, epitaphs and groans.

You are not to be swayed nor denied.
T’was a week before Christmas that you died.
You served that some young Afghan hearts may be free,
You served that some Afghans may think, speak and write free.
You served that you may finally be free, as heaven cannot wait.
For you had an appointment with your ineluctable fate.
Into the black hearse they loaded you with care,
The bagpipes continue to mourn as the hearse pulls away.
I salute you for the nobler profession you had chosen,
Two proud burials for a yuletide season.
Death and Hope together on this late December day,
Yuletide seasons will never be the same again after today.