A man is not dead until he is forgotten. . . . NEVER FORGET!

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 pilot's planes shot down?
How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers graves?
No ... Freedom is not 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 a 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 is not Free!

~ Kelly Strong ~
Kellystrong(at)aol.com
© 1981

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