Saving Private Ryan

Echoes of the Bay

When clouds of war clung high over Omaha’s shore,
the first air‑spattered sky gave breath to the young.
By ten‑seventeen, the tide of fate was poured,
and thirteen broken children drowned in the roar.

The film, a long‑winded wander through blood and salt,
renders a single boy an armour‑clad sign.
From the frantic bay to bomb‑scarred French fault,
mission sang: “Only one to not be left behind.”

We watch Private Ryan’s gash, strained against his walled shadow,
as every rope is tightened in the ailing world.
To save a private, a symphony of comrades, bravo,
of sacrifice surfacing from the war‑hurt swirl.

Honour, to the braver soldiers who marched from the cliffs,
‑ those who carried the veil of ordinary life inside.
The distance between bravado and the child, the rift,
the presenters of their kin brought home the cost.

In that mid‑late 1944 setting the world strays,
the benediction of the film teaches the humbled.
The call for courage haunts our modern greys,
and we learn that risking peace for freedom is not without bounds.

Thus the ocean’s roar echoes in carriage of the land,
the boy, once lost, retired as a place of everlasting respect.
A film of war’s behemoths with no grander band,
for what matters is what was for the pro‑suffered.