Freedom
They’ll make a shrine of this battle ground
With silent rifles and tilted crowns;
And who we were with names and dates,
And posthumous medals commending our fates.
Those who live will be the first to tell
In stirring words of our lives in Hell,
Of who we were and how we fought,
Dying for friends we never forgot.
A bugle calls and Taps will sound
For those we’ve laid to rest;
Heads will bow and hands salute
As those we mourn are blessed.
Small white crosses are all that’s left
To show why we were here;
We struggled and died for a cause
We’ll hold forever dear.
