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in the cause of freedom around the world
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This father's letter was read at the year 2009 Remembrance Day Service in the Lacombe Memorial Centre - LMC) It is bad enough to send him halfway around the world to earn my FREEDOMS, it is a far greater thing he does this day, than I could do in a thousand days. It is not enough that I sit and remember, it is not enough by a measure too small to notice, but notice I do. This pit sits in my stomach and causes me much pain, because I know I have lived a life of plenty and never once thought of the cost…. Until now! Having traveled to and from more than 20 different countries around the world, breaking bread with Bedouin gypsies in the deserts of Yemen, to witnessing the horrors of a public flogging in Dubai, standing on the ancient grounds in Carthage North Africa where historic battles were fought and won by men not much older than my son, and while I was wandering the streets of extreme poverty in Indonesia, I have never once felt more afraid for my lack of understanding than I do today. It is not just November 11 that brings me to remembrance, it has become personal. I cannot shake the memory of the little boy who could barely walk, the little boy who could barely speak, the little boy with a quick smile and a heartfelt laugh that compelled me to laugh along with him, this little boy so full of love that has now grown to a man and has answered the call, he is knowingly, going off to put himself in harm's way to ensure I can come and go unnoticed, so that I can lead a solitary life of complacency. No more, no more, no more. I find myself sitting in Santa Cruz Bolivia wishing I was next to Elijah in Afghanistan, doing what a parent can only hope to do, protect my child from harm! But I cannot, I can only pray that our great and merciful FATHER will find it in HIS will to watch over my little boy, to keep him from harm and bring him home safe. If only in HIS will. When Elijah was born, I never once thought he would be carrying a rifle into battle, where he would be crouched in some hole in a foreign land to protect the very FREEDOM I selfishly expect, the right to walk down my street, drive down the road and come and go as I please, it really does not make a difference to me today, I would give it all up to ensure my son makes it home. GOD asks us to be willing to serve, few of us are truly put to the test, it is not enough to fight, but rather to lead, lead in the path that sets an example for others to follow, so I ask myself, am I worthy to be blessed with a son who is not only willing but has the conviction of spirit to trust in GOD's great and merciful will? Who by his actions - leads ! Remembrance day has come on gone over my 49 years, sometimes I "remember" but this year I am saddened by my complete and total misunderstanding of FREEDOM.
You see, it is not about ourselves, it is about others, no one cares how much you know, until they know how much you care !
Thank you Elijah, you are constantly in my prayers! Brad |
( :A sonnet by Laurel Deedrick-Mayne :) From photos, books and newsreels of the day, Where nameless soldiers marched into the fray. Detached, I studied details of their flight. But in the cemetery bathed in light I began to see the war in shades of grey. Father, sons and brothers rest so far away From lips that would have bid a brief "good-night". I wished each one a moment from his youth
Note: Laurel is the daughter of Lacombe veteran Dr. Dalton Deedrick and Kay Deedrick
Where the saints had often trod. As the soldier waited quietly, For the judgment of his God.
" Step forward now, you soldier,
` Author Unknown ' |
by A. Lawrence Vaincourt And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past. Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done, In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, every one.
And tho' sometimes, to his neighbours, his tales became a joke,
He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,
Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
A politician's stipend and the style in which he lives
It's so easy to forget them for it was so long ago,
Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand,
He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin,
If we cannot do him honour while he's here to hear the praise,
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" We few, we happy few, we band of brothers "
( Shakespeare - King Henry V )
in the battlefields of Italy during WWII.)
Published in Rome, Italy by Canadian Public Relations Services during February 1945.
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" Give a soldier a stub of lead pencil and a piece of paper and the first thing you know he's written a poem.
Maybe all men are poets at heart and it just takes a war to awaken this hidden talent, for it is a fact that some really great poetry has been- written by soldiers in this and other wars. Perhaps it is because there is plenty of time to think in the army.
It is then very often that, by the light of a guttering candle
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The Maple Leaf (newspaper) has, during the past year (1944), published some excellent poetry -
poems gay and whimsical, poems tragic, poems nostalgic. Now we are pleased to present to you a small collection of some of the best of this soldier verse. It represents by no means all of the good poetry which has appeared in the weekly in "Rhyme and Reason" column, but the verses re-published herewith have been selected by a competent committee of judges as 'molto buono'. We hope you'll like this little souvenir, a memen0to of Italy from The Maple Leaf. " of Public Relations Allied Force Headquarters. 1945 |
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What are the things for which he yearns? I ask this question day by day, And this is what they mostly say: "The loving embrace of a wife,
Time to work and time to play,
To live, but in a modest way,
These are the things of which they speak,
G.R.SIMPSON How I long to see your shore Rise out of the sea, and grow Till our ship, no longer large, Slips into your welcome arms. To feel your soil beneath my feet before I mount an iron steed, and speed Across your vast domain Till I am home again In Canada, My Canada. JACK SEMCZUK Cool, morning air of youth your lungs inhaled; You walked the forenoon earth, still damp with dew, Knew not the world that later hours regaled. For those whom God decreed should still remain To witness sunrise, sunset, night and day. Night's calm nor day light's warmth shall quell the pain Of knowledge that a friend has passed away . G.W.P. And birdsong sounding gay, The golden tints of Autumn, Trees in their green array.
The song of running water,
Cows grazing in a pasture,
These things shall last the lifetime
E.OWSON (Excerpts from a letter in rhyme written to a lad in the Irish Regiment by his mother). Hope you are well; we couldn't e better. I've plenty of paper and plenty of time So just to be different I'll write this in rhyme. It is Sunday and things have been quiet all day;
We'll throw a big party and have so much fun.
And there is a favor - please do it for me,
By now I have written 'about all I can write.
from your Mom . And you're sick of the way the rationing's done, And you're sick of standing around in line. You're sick, you say. Well, ain't that fine? For I am sick of the sun and the heat, And I'm sick of the feel of my aching feet, And sick of the siren's wailing shriek, And I'm sick of the groans of the wounded and weak. I'm sick of the slaughter, I'm sick to my soul, I'm sick of playing the killer's role, And I'm sick, damned sick, of myself as well. But I'm sicker still of the tyrant's rule, And conquered lands where the wild beasts drool, And I'm cured damned quick when I think of the day When all this hell will be out of the way; When none of this mess will have been in vain, And the lights of the world will blaze again, And the Axis flags will be dipped and furled, And God looks down on a perfect world. . CRAIG HEATHE Passing Stranger it may be, To consider at your leisure, Things that shortly are to be.
War on every hand arising,
PRE. JOHN WELCH But now at home is sorrowfully mourned. Booby-traps he couldn't capito, Now, alas, you'll find he's finito.
Read all signs as you go along,
WILLIAM TELESKE Spice of Araby, chicken croquettes, Filet mignon or Gileads's balm! Pass me another hunk of spam . Ann Onymous (This poem was contributed by a British author who has long been associated with the Canadian Forces in Italy). While the women wept behind them and the gay bands played before: Scornful if they were pitied, with a song they went away, They with the shining morning eyes that scarce had seen the day. And the grey years passed and they came again, triumphal flags unfurled . . . And my heart cried out to the unreturned on the other side of the world. Why now should I mourn that the scars of war on my own broad bosom fall? What matters it if my body be torn when my spirit is grown so tall? So pity me not that my homes are dark and my streets are empty of mirth . . . I am one at last with my fallen sons in every part of the earth . JAMES PARISH By the palazzo Where dirty ragazzo Squabble for cigaret butts, And garlicky Flora, The florid signora, Peddles her lemons and nuts, Lives Cici Carbone Who runs the Salone - "Hey Joe, shave?"
Hurry on your way
In the piazza
If you're unbarbered,
VICTOR GOTRO Providin' you like it, I mean, But this land of wops ain't a land that's tops For a finer country I've seen. 'Tis across the sea where people are free, And to me 'twill be Paradise When I settle down near the ol' home town, 'Neath blue Alberta skies . G. RIES (RCA) For this is sacred ground. And we Who heard the call to help set free The peoples of the world, lie dead Beneath these rows of crosses white; We rest the while, no more to fight.
When guns be still'd and tumult cease,
For Freedom's sake did we endure
"MEL" As you move down from the line, There are rows of wooden crosses All painted white, and fine. They're the headstones for the fallen, Who underneath do lie; They're the men who came for Canada, To fight for Peace - and die. They're the stalwart sons of Freedom That came from farm and mine; They're the stalwart sons of Canada Who broke the Hitler Line. As you walk through rows of crosses,
P.J. POWER As here I stand, mud-stained and weary In a land not mine. Moving to the Whims of a Destiny Born of an aimless union with two clashing thoughts Which in their time have grown too great for me, Shorn me of every conviction except that I am right To groan "This is my fight", and stay in foreign places Till there's an end of it.
Make me this night a thing apart
Cause me to tremble never more
And when I have done my part, and spanned
( R. P. ) Of recent action here, And also feats of brothers, friends, 'Though in a different sphere. Our present leaders, able, tough, With us, have won acclaim; In Italy, in Normandy, Results have been the same. The Hun is being driven back, He knows not where to turn. (Recalling days of '40, Sir, It's nice to see him squirm). The battle's far from over But we're keen to play our part; We're still the blade you termed us, Edging close to Berlin's heart. The tempered steel of Canada's men Has smote the Nazi horde; We'd like to take time out to thank The man who forged the Sword. ( J. E. C. ) That is the pleasant task that Shakespeare set As one befitting lovers; therefore let Me try my hand' it should be easily done. Its graceful curve - that, I could dwell upon In glowing words (if I could just forget Those other curves, more ''luring, softer yet, Whish still my pen before I have begin, With marveling); or I could haply sing The lovely invitation it extends When subtly lifted, save that everything About you does invite when you're inclined. How can I sing of what one brow portends When all of you is so much on my mind ? ( R.E.B. ) Muddy Melfa flowed below And all Hell was a-poppin' 'Bove the water's undertow. When thru' the smoke-filled valley Charged two men, chock full of guts blasting for themselves an alley Thru' the truck and trailer ruts. Remember, Hell was breaking loose
The battle soon was over
( Buster - N. B. H. ) The duplicity Of Italy Lies in its simplicity - It's nothing but mountains And fountains. ( R. P. ) On all your little deeds since that far day Time wedged our paths apart. I shall not say As others might, who missed our presence, too: "How did you like the town of so and so?" Or some such phrase friends utter, unconcerned; What use are casual words to those who learned
One day, in silence, all they need to know?
( Sent by F.E. Bender, CPC ) If he grieves when you are sad, If he tolerates your follies Without end.
If he makes your way his way,
( Anonymous ) The summers which the years divide for me Are lived by people unconfined by danger-- With whom I left my heart; when I was free.
In every haunted, tall, fantastic city,
( Matthew Wherry ) To keep a nation strong and free. One is a hearthstone bright and dear, With busy, happy, loved ones near.
One is a ready heart and hand
Nation and people will survive,
( Anonymous ) |
I wonder what they think and dream Inside that Compound wire, For they are human with their love, And hate, and heart's desire.
These men have steered a lurching tank;
Wearing that alien uniform
I understand that far-off look-
They bombed our open cities _
They sank the lone tramp steamer,
So as I watch the prisoners
E.A.DOWSON First in tactics of war; Of Death, at German's door. First and foremost in struggle, First to settle the score - First Canadian Army And First Canadian Corps J.L.W. . . Beneath the cold, damp sod; Their work on earth accomplished, Their souls we give to God.
Brave lads of our Dominion,
Let not future generations
Give nations, Lord, the power
Let man heed not to colour,
Then we, Thy sons, the fallen,
J.W.OLDFORD There's an air raid on, and heavens are bright, The sky in full of smoke and planes Shrapnel is dropping on country lanes.
The power if off, Black fills the night,
It seems to brighten up the room,
The raid is over - the light beams bright;
E.C.C. Beckoning sloe-eyes, alive yet asleep; Free-flowing hips with serpentuous sway, Thighs framed by shadows forever at play; Beauties unequaled 'neath Heaven's blue dome, You gladdening, maddening women of Rome. G.H. ADLAM Award the palm to "M and V" Whate'er the ingredients, on the whole 'tis Next-of-kin to linseed poultice.
No fouler bird exists, I ween.
VOICE OF EXPERIENCE As the shades of eve come down, And all is hushed and quiet Throughout the mountain town.
There is something 'bout this hour,
The dogs of war, exhausted,
And sitting in the twilight
We are thankful, Lord in Heaven,
Again the poppies grow, And like the last great fight, we see The crosses row on row; For brave men lie 'neath foreign soil In lasting peace and free from toil.
Who knows their thought as they passed on
How gallantly they fought and died;
As in the last war, so in this,
So sleep, brave warriors, you must know
GEORGE DOWNIE in the Ld SH who was killed during Melfa River action). It seems he was too young to die Yet had he lived a normal span Could he have left a finer record? Would he have died a better man?
He has gone out to meet his Maker,
Many an old and hardened heart
TO THE ACIIVE CANADIAN ARMY {Volunteers All} (This prophetic verse, written over two years ago (1943), is a tribute in rhyme that came from the pen of W. Cmdr. Creed, RCAF). It's time to take a bow; We'll tell the world, in this man's war You've done a job - and how! It hasn't been an easy job, As we who've watched you know; Nor have you shared our luck, as yet, Your stuff in full to show. You've had to work like hell and wait For two long years and more, Not has Publicity's acclaim Held much for you in store. But when your leash is slipped, my lads, By all the Gods of War The Hun will find out, to his cost, What you've been waiting for.
On you, our pals in battledress,
To all our pals in battledress
And face monotony of war? What changes doubtful dawn to light And gives us will to do yet more?
The choking dust, the burning heat.
Then comes the balm, the healing cup
The news from home, those precious lines,
G.H. ADLAM (This poem, written by a soldier in France, won the New York Herald,(Paris Edition) prize for the best poem written during World War One). Shrouding the earth in deep, symbolic gloom, And, when I think that e'er my fancy's flight Has passed the portals of the inner room.
Where knighted hosts
Better in one ecstatic, epic day
Forwarded by Pte. GEORGE A. THORNE There was Irving Berlin and la belle Marlene Dietrich. Bob Hope and Jack Haley came out here, I know, With the purpose in mind of our own Army Show. I saw the Tin Hats and the Forage Caps also; I've heard singers (base) and chanteuses (contralto). To morale-lifting agents I say simply, "Brother, If you want real results - just you bring out my Mother!" . J.DAWSON Met a WAAF who said, "Why you goose, Your battledress pants Remind me of France - They're so much Toulon and Toulouse" . THOMAS GEOFFERY HANSON And get that awful feeling that your neck is in a noose Especially here in Italy there is always an excuse; You can always put the blame upon the mud!
You'll be feeling plumb disgusted and our head is bent with woe,
M. ST. C. STERLING (Dedicated to Major Paul Triquet, VC, and his men) Turning northward by the sea, You will soon near the crescendo Of our field artillery. You will feel the earth a-trembling With shell and bomb and mine, You will know the Hun is short'ning, Once again, his Winter line.
Puffs of smoke will be arising
You will carry with you mem'ries,
You'll praise the gallant infantry
J. M. COLLING Of beautiful old Napoli with super lovely views; The travel books may shower praise upon this ancient place, And tell great tales of conquest about the mighty race; But traveler, if you've a yen old Italy to see, Then help yourself, my friend, and please accept my share from me . L. C. PILKINGTON Mysterious, silent, eerie, Held in their rocky crags remains The secret of the Liri. For blood ran red and stained the snow - The dead lie on the plains below.
If hills but had a voice to raise,
One spot we know will
To those who saw that shattered mound
Thus, when I saw those blackened trees,
GEORGE DOWNIE And shells go whistling by, I've often said it to myself I'd sooner live than die. E.J. CAUGHTY The ship steamed for Canada's shores; When land loomed up over the skyline The heavens were rent with men's roars.
But the pleasure was just a short-lived one,
S. EVANS The foliage green, the birds that fly From tree to tree the whole day through, Despite the guns that roar nearby?
Do you wonder why the children play
Do you wonder why love is so strong,
Do not wonder. "Tis God's plan.
Man's spirit shall remain the same,
J. M. C. |
(Major Campbell was killed in Italy, Christmas Day, 1943, fighting with his regiment. His father was killed Christmas Day, 1916, fighting with the Royal Canadian Regiment in the other war. When they searched the body of Major Campbell where he fell, they found a slip of paper on which this poem was written) I lead my men against the Huns; It's then I feel so all alone; and weak and scared. And oft I wonder how I dared Accept the task of leading men.
I wonder, worry, fret, and then . . .I pray;
Draw near, oh God;
These men of mine must never know
Has left me unfussy, I eat what I'm given, Squire sweet thing or hussy; I'm subjected to needles, And never complain If I foot-slog it out In the sunshine or rain. I hail from the east - I'd take no one to task If they sent me to Gregg (Man.) Or Swift Current (Sask.) I'd willingly travel across a rough sea E'en if the boat headed For Work Point (B.C.) I wouldn't resist Nor would I halt a Plan to fly me To Grassy Lake (Alta.) I wouldn't say "No" (Though It's not what I want) To a trip that would take me To Sharp Corners (Ont.) For Salem (N.S.) Or Salt Springs (N.B.) I wouldn't run over With absolute glee; But because I'm not fussy Id still heave a sigh To see either place Or Tignish (P.E.I.) But should I regain Pre-war's fussier view, I'll hold out for home - Kazabazua (P.Q.) . JEAN-BAPTISTE When evening comes And twilight falls as gently as your touch, While all my thoughts turn homeward in the gloom? Or in the deep of night? When here is such Oppressive silence that the darkness hums With tiny sounds, inaudible by day, And ghosts of memory march across my room? Or in the sun-drenched morning, when clouds play Games with the breeze that blows in from the sea; The blue sky smiling at their childish zest" As you, my dear, have often smiled at me? What other hours are there? Name the rest; It matters not, for of the twenty-four, Each passing hour I miss you that much more. R.E.B. You'll be on civvie street again, The time is coming when you'll be Back with your friends and family St have you taken time out yet To brush up on your etiquette? Your manners must be polished, too. Instead of brass and army shoe; You're gonna find it isn't easy Behaving like a Canadese. For instance, you must sit to eat And through the meal you keep your seat. Never, never, never, reach Across the table for a peach. Remember that a civvie lives On butter with no adjectives. There is no line-up, no delay, You get your meals three times a day; When walking down the avenue The greeting is "How do you do?" But when an officer goes by Just tip your hat and holler "Hi!" Remember that the corner store Has garden vegetables galore Stealing 'taters from your neighbor Leads to six months with hard labor. Flogging blankets is taboo - Remember, they belong to you. You can wave a "buona sera" To the phoney Itie Lira; Bid welcome to Canadian change, Even though you'll find it strange. Bathtubs, toilets, kitchen sinks. Fresh cow's milk and bottled drinks, Revolving doors and escalators, Restaurants with aproned waiters _ A new world opens up for you, The door is wide - and what a view! But don't dare think it a pushover, There's lots of weeds among the clover; Take warning, ladies, whose hearts are yearning For your menfolk's home returning; Pause a while in your elation _ Prepare yourselves for transformation . " CHARLSEE KING (PPCLI) From the house where we buy all our eggs, The girl with the powerful shoulders, The girl with the chorus girl legs. She's dirty, she's ragged, she's barefoot, And her long matted hair is a sight. I know she no speaka da Eengglissh, And perhaps, she can't even write. But she'll work . . . every day she is working From dawn till the lamplight burns out. She's a body by Fisher, and a chassis That out-Grables Grable, no doubt.
And so, when this old war is over
And there won't be no work for yours truly
SSM A.A. FERRIS (Written originally for a "Crystal Ball", born within folds of 5th Medium Regt., RCA, at Ionia, Sicily). Hearing the noises great and small; The distant clock, a nearer tone Of the sentry's feet on the cobblestones, The drone of an aeroplane overhead, A bird song from a cactus bed. I saw the bird with its ruddy breast, An English robin I almost guessed. Then, my heart went back to the Surrey hills, The silent pools, the water mills, A hamlet sleeping in the sun, Creeping dusk when the day is done, The firelight on two faces small Watching shadows n the wall, The nights I carried the two to bed Tucked them in and sometimes read Of fairy princes and pretty queens ntil they entered the land of dreams. Here I am 'neath a Southern sky, The minutes and hours drifting by. But I wish for England's damp and chill. For half my heart is in England still. Forwarded by CPL. WHEELOCK A flea with sex appeal; Her antics were a treat to watch, Her name 't was Lucille.
But she lived for love, and love alone,
Today you find them everywhere,
G. R. SIMPSON There's a trail I know through a belt of bush, Where poplar and willow sway. And the cranberries show like a splash of flame Gleaming red on an Autumn day.
One day I'll wander there again,
I'll catch once more in that land of peace,
the Spring thaw, and the ploughing rain.
These are the things of a soldier's dreams,
ERIC A. DOWSON The scattered squadrons fly Proud and swift and beautiful, Against the flame-flushed sky
On edges of the morning,
Below the fields of Europe -
Battle-scarred, their task accomplished
Fanning the leaves of the cherry tree, Cooling desires of the bumble bee; Blow gently, good wind.
Over the fields of ripening grain,
Chasing the clouds over the peaks,
Pausing to bless the poppies red.
Blow gently, good wind, from over the sea;
"J' (Italy. '44) Tempting my tired soul to gain its rest. "Rise from this wet and mud-bound sea, What matters if you fall - to gain the crest?"
Then, light! Oh, brilliant, dazzling beam!
Excelling all in simplicity
(Written by an unknown Canuck while in action at Rimini) Are paved, Indeed, With belles of ev'ry Race and Creed
Though Roman gals
W. EALING Beneath the warrior's lowering brow What gentle wit, what thought so wise, Becomes apparent to us now.
Let spring her fires within you light
G. R. H. ROSS So does the turkey and so does the beer . JOE ZILCH As they gazed on the awful scene. Their faces paled with anguish, And their gills turned faintly green. For seldom has anyone suffered As they did that horrible night. Seldom before have humans Beheld such a ghastly sight. There on the ground before them The shattered remnants lay, And a steady stream of crimson Seeped into the thirsty clay. And they stood in breathless silence As men who were stricken dumb, For they'd just seen the sergeant major Break a jug of issue rum. SGT. D MEADE (SEAFORHTS) The boys who lived next door or down the street, The boys who whistled on their way to school, Or else, with laggard feet, Stopped to toss pebbles in a wayside pool. Knock marbles 'gainst a fence or wall. These are the boys| Whose names were written in our registers a few short years ago; Such little wide-eyed boys, just five or six or so. Who, now to manhood grown, have heard the call And answered with their lives if need be, So that other little boys of five or six or so May still be free To whistle on their way to school, Or, with reluctant feet, Stop to toss pebbles in a wayside pool, Play marbles on the street. MARGARET ICKERSON Twisted trees waiting to die. Pain-wracked bodies lying stark, Flares and shell fire in the dark, Unearthly wails and hideous moans, A mortally wounded stirs and groans. Slimy craters and splintered rocks, Out in the dark a sniper stalks. The air is filled with a tiger's roar Clearing its throat of a clot of gore. Hollow-eyed men strew the ground, Dazed and battered by continual sound. Shouts and screams, machine guns' rattle. Never was there such a battle! The night has ended, the day begun, The objective reached, the fight is won. The heads are counted, prayers are said, And graves are dug for the scattered dead. A letter home to hide a tear, "Don't worry folks, all's quiet here" . L-CPL. G. S. SHEILSWAR And think he is doing no wrong| He'll take you around if you lend him a pound, And take all you have for a song.
He has a thousand-mile ranch that was left him by chance
He's forgotten his wife, he'll be single for life,
He'll gaze with a frown on old London town,
He has personal charm that is meant to disarm
Though you know he's a liar your blood is on fire,
Though you may regret it you'll never forget it,
Though he makes you so mad and often quite sad,
He'll wed you, of course, when he gets his divorce,
AUTHOR UNKNOWN With no thought of the dark to come. The church bells ring the evening prayer; The day, its hours have spun. The scene is one of peace and calm Where once the battle raged. A soothing, quiet, restful balm The wounds of war have laved.
It brings to mind the fallen dead,
The night is here and dark the day,
F. MARKS Across the westward sea and travel home; And find you waiting there for me. I'd like to see the widening surge of foam Sweep from ship's stern to make a frothy trail From these strange shores to those I know and love; To put behind me all this phantasy Of man-made death - around, below, above, And ruins everywhere; to move once more In that small, happy world we knew, Where everything was whole, complete; where war Could never reach. But reason tells me true: "The road to that world lies not to the West. Push on! It lies beyond that shell-torn crest". . R. E. B. |
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