The
names are there.
Reading
those names returns their faces
to
memory's eye, those faces from so long ago,
faces
that will be no more remembered when we've gone.
Their
names may be forever there, carved into the stone.
Yet,
they will be but letters.
Memory's
ear hears their voices yet.
But
for how much longer?
We
are not immortal.
When
the sun has come
as
many times again as since last we heard them,
most
of us will be no more.
The
time and the war that took them is
remembered
only because we remain yet,
and
because those who encouraged their killers,
still
insist, with half-heart, that it was right to do so,
while
we, silent, turn away and remember
their
faces and their voices.
BY: G.E. Farrell
Though others mocked
their loyalty,
they accepted
their responsibility.
They answered
their nation's call.
Though fearful,
uncertain, they risked all
for "Duty, Honor,
Country".
The burden carried,
the battle done,
most who survived
returned to their homes
to pick up their
lives, spend their days,
determined to
live in their own way
for "Duty, Honor,
Country".
As time will, it
has brought them age.
Yet, were the
bugle to sound today,
though their step
be slower, their hair be grey,
they'd stand again
as in olden days
for "Duty, Honor,
Country".
Let us not forget
their gallantry
their willingness
to leave family
and friends for
danger and uncertainty,
to face the storm
unflinchingly,
for "Duty, Honor,
Country".
BY: G.E. Farrell
A
judge is stripped of his robe, a professor banned from his classroom,
a politician mocked,
for wearing war's laurels absent experience
of war's peril.
When truth's revealed,
their supporters arm themselves with umbrage
and denounce its
bearers as once they did we who met the enemy.
Strange indeed.
BY: G.E. Farrell