His uniform, it gathers dust,
And yet she keeps it, as she must.
For since she heard the word, bereft,
It's all of him that she has left.
His many medals, multi-hued,
Recall his image, love renewed.
With pride and sorrow, in his stead,
They form a pillow for her head.
Her love was spilt across the sea
To answer calls for liberty.
Though he's been gone for many years,
His memory still ties her to tears.
Parades may form, and troops may march,
Processionals of neatest starch.
And they salute the sacrificed,
Who gave beyond what could be priced.
She'll line her walk with flags again
To honor all the fallen men
And pray for loved ones left alone
With nothing by a granite stone.
She'll lay some blossoms by his name,
Her loyalty thus to proclaim,
And hold his empty hat again
Until she joins the freedom train.
No comments:
Post a Comment