Monday, May 26, 2008

Memorial Day

In honor of my ancestors, and those I love, and also for those who have given their lives so that I can remain a free and growing person, I dedicate this poem.

The Unsung Dead

Thousands lie in fields the world around;
Some have names in stone, and honors there.
These are not to whom we sing this prayer.
It is for those who have no family found.

In unmarked graves, no flowers at their head,
They lay in ordered rows to left and right,
Or scattered randomly at end of fight.
For them, we sing, the hallowed unsung dead.

He might have been a grunt, or a marine.
Does it matter? No, it never does.
Dead is dead; we cannot change what was.
Past marches into present, still unclean.

War, we ask, what is it ever good for?
But "nothing" is not true. Soldiers are chained.
Freedom is not free; it must be gained
Through hard work earned, and earn'st vows swore.

The unsung dead, they gave for us their lives.
The least that we can do is spend a day
Taking time to honor mem'ries gray
Of men who in our song now do survive.

(c) Allyson Szabo, May 26th, 2008
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