OFTEN. In the cold war I
was afraid from one type of war but this was born out of the death of another
war. I feel I was close to some who were eternally lost. Over the dark moors
they flew never to be men but their end, their violent death torn apart was
that of men, I wondered if on dark rainy lonely windswept nights if their
spirits were trapped on the barren north moors. If I could talk to them id ask
what is it like out here amongst the rocks and the heather. I have no illusion
at what happened here I saw something no kid should see - the alloy of their
Lancaster melted onto rocks like liquid candle wax onto the flesh of a trusted
lover. Death ruled here not love. Was it for our freedom they perished out
there on the moors? I have to guess yes or their deaths are in vain.
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