On the vale of once untrodden snow, He, the wounded soldier frantically calls. But none to be enticed to the crimson flow, Of the sky-warrior, who a two and twenty thousand feet falls. The chilling winds carry his cries, Merely to be echoed by the silent hills. Playing a sheer spectator to his vain tries To crawl up to the beguiling rills. A man in the primrose of vigor, Who once dreamt of a bed of roses. Falls another victim to the arcane rigor He, the now lifeless soldier, on the bed of snow, reposes. One against a forty odd, he fought Did it but occur to a few Piloting a plane in fire caught A victory would be stolen from a catch-22. A burning wing lies by his side, A reminder of the celestial rave But none to hum to this hero’s unsung pride Or pay homage to his solitary grave.