It was cold as I remember on that night so long ago,
The land around was covered with ice and falling snow.
It was quiet and almost time for them to come again,
To try and take once more this hill where they had been.
And soon we heard their whistles, and the shock of all their horns,
They came in hordes of men and guns... no time for us to mourn.
It was not a policeman's job to do, as Mr. Truman said,
It was these young men fighting, while friends lay near and bled.
And when this war was over, and we came home again,
Did all of you have patience, as we fought the wars within?
The demons of our minds you see returned with us that day.
So, to our family and our friends, that did not understand,
Please reach out to us, and gently take our hand.
Please hold it tight so that we'll know how much we mean to you,
Those years of silence were, because of things we had to do.
We ask that you remember us, when we're no longer here,
These grey and wrinkled men you see... all gave for things held dear.
In a lonely place so far away, on land they did not own,
A place called "Hell" where young men went... and old men came back home.
| I wrote this for the family of a Marine Sgt. whose wife and children he never spoke to of what he did or saw. He earned a Bronze Star with Combat V and two Purple Hearts and frostbite problems as most men did who were there... May Our Lord give a measure of peace, and Bless all who served so well. |
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