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A little patch of color on
a lonely mound of green,
A little flag above him very new and very clean.
The May time breezes blow,
through the grasses soft and sweet,
And the little children
wonder,
why the drums so slowly beat.
They’re told there was a
soldier,
in the days before they came,
Who marched away to battle,
when the world was all-aflame.
For they’ve heard us talk
about him,
and they often heard us sigh,
But they have no
understanding,
of the reasons soldiers die.
Only those who’ve lived a
wartime,
know its anguish and its pain.
And the anxious weeks of
waiting,
and the tears that fall like rain.
For those who’ve lost a
soldier,
understand Memorial Day,
And the bitter cost of
freedom,
which the brave go forth to pay.
Now the children follow
with us,
to the grave with pretty flowers,
And we try to teach them
something,
of the memory that is ours.
And hopefully when they are
older,
they will come to understand,
For THEM, they went to battle in a far-off land. |
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