With the coming 75th anniversary of the final battles at Cassino in mind, I add here a poem - named Lacrimae Liri (Tears of the Liri) - written by my father's comrade, Nicholas Mosley, MC, platoon commander in E Company of the London Irish Rifles, when he was in hospital after being wounded on the morning of 16 May 1944. It is included in Nicholas' war time memoir "A Time at War". I was fortunate enough to meet Nicholas a couple of times, once with my father, to share memories of some of their friends, including Eddie Mayo, who died at Casa Sinagoga dring the LIR's assault on the Gustav Line. Nick kindly gave us permission to include the poem as the foreword of my father's book about his war time service. Quis Separabit. The cornfields wave toward the sky. And from above the clouds reply With smiles of gentle sleepiness. Below, the summer sun’s caress Lies softly on the silent plains. And deep within the sunken lanes, The trailing thorns hang down to dream And slowly in the silver stream, The leaves of weary willows drift And sway to lazy winds that lift The heavy heads of drooping trees With tenderness of silken breeze But Stranger, Stranger, don’t you see? Behind each crimson-tinted tree, Within those hollow, haunted walls And torn upon each thorn that falls So gently, gently, groping down Beside the silent fields that crown The sleepy summer’s brittle glare With ripples in the sun-swept air? Stranger, don’t you see that there The devil’s terror-laden breath Suffuses all with taint of death? That here one summer long ago The silent lanes did slowly flow With drops of dying hearts that bled, And drained the dying to the dead? That here, vain tears of frozen grief Once trembled on each withered leaf And hung from every tearing thorn; And out amongst the golden corn, Blind eyes did strain in vain to see The light that mocked their agony.