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So many hearts still ... like black stone;
So many mysteries hide the missing ones,
So many tears ... red roses weep alone.
So many feel the spirit of The Wall,
As if some magic blessing lingers there;
Remembering our heroes ... one and all,
The Wall ... so many names ... so many prayers.
A pilgrimage to where true courage lies,
Where thousands stop to touch a name and pray;
Above the reverence ... someone's mother cries,
A brother got a new red Rose today.
I reach to touch your name to say, "It's me."
I feel a tiny brush of Angel wings,
As if to say, "My spirit is now free!"
The Wall ... the names ... and remembering.
Five hundred feet long ...
Ten feet high, scribed with names,
Of those who died ... the strong.
There's more than fifty-eight thousand,
Etched upon that stone;
Most of them died so young,
This life ... they've never known.
It's such a small tribute
To those who fought our war;
Such a small price we pay,
To those who gave much more.
Their name carved in a rock
That most of us won't read;
Not near enough praise to give,
For their most gracious deed.
Seems there's too many of us,
Who don't really seem to care;
That we stayed home secure and safe,
While they died over there.
Remember when you see that Wall,
With all those initials and names,
That those men were only pawns ...
In one more of those deadly games.
Let's hope what they gave had meaning,
And that peace will always reign;
That we won't have to send our young,
To fight and die again.
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