Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Stolen Recollection

Trees flip past like the legs of a million soliders marching. Fields carefully tended iced in frost. A steel silo stands like a bugle call beacon.
Remembering, by this little red smile, what was given up for me. Young boys, older men, left home, hearth, hearts, to travel far away to the cold and fear, to fight for me. Plans left off, opportunities sacrificed, lives cut short.
In the morning and at the going down of the sun,
We will remember them.

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