|
| |
| III.A.6.a. |
A
Soldier's story |
|
|
I
watched the flag pass by one day,
it
fluttered in the breeze.
|
|
|
|
|
|
A
young Marine saluted it,
And
then he stood at ease.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I
looked at him in uniform
So
young, so tall, so proud,
With
hair cut square and eyes alert
He'd
stand out in any crowd.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I
thought how many men like him
Had
fallen through the years.
How
many died on foreign soil
How
many mothers' tears?
|
|
|
|
|
|
How
many pilots' planes shot down?
How
many died at sea?
How
many foxholes were soldiers' graves?
No,
freedom isn't free.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I
heard the sound of Taps one night,
When
everything was still,
I
listened to the bugler play
And
felt a sudden chill.
I
wondered just how many times
That
Taps had meant "Amen,"
|
|
|
|
|
|
When
a flag had draped a coffin
Of
a brother or friend.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I
thought of all the children,
Of
the mothers and the wives,
|
|
|
|
|
|
Of
fathers, sons and husbands
with
interrupted lives
|
|
|
|
|
|
I
thought about a graveyard
at
the bottom of the sea |
|
|
 |
|
Of
unmarked graves in Arlington |
|
|
|
|
|
No,
freedom isn't free. |
|
|
|
|
| |
.
|
.
