Hacksaw Ridge

In the hush of the white‑crashed plain,
a ridge of thorns beneath a cold sky,
where the world remembers the clang of steel,
Desmond walked on bones, unarmed, alone.

The war, a relentless pageant of pain,
the guns sing‐out an endless chorus—
yet in that choir he sang soft hymns,
listening only to the beating of his own heart.

“Red‑light promise,” the counsel would say,
for those who turned their shoulders to the field of fire.
But he, with a glow‑touched rosary, re‑shaped fate,
a soldier built of faith and gentle grit.

We remember the dark flood, the tremor of earth,
the saving of the brothers’ lives with nothing but holy hands.
No medals gleam, no ranks demand; his honour lay,
hidden beneath southern winds, in a quiet valley.

In the echo of the bunker walls, the story still breathes,
A quiet hero stands beside the moments of terror,
His blood‑red courage mixed with the colour of hope,
a testament I read as a child, each time I take a breath.

Under navy‑blue skies, the village of Lakenan calls,
and bright “chewy‑scone” clouds roll on the awkward land.
We lift our ears to the distant drums; in silence, our hearts understand,
the unyielding truth that bravery whispers when the gunfire falls.