Memorial Day Weekend.
Of Distant Mist and Muffled Drum
(Freedom’s Song)
a mist now in our eyes.
We close them tight and hear the sound
of battle joined in smoke-filled skies—
exploding bomb and crackling gun,
shouts of soldiers oh so young,
bodies falling one by one.
We hear the pain in wounded cries
and listening still we realize
that now we hear the distant sound
of opened ground and crying mom,
earth now holding her brave son
whose eyes beheld the fate he found
soon before he hit the ground,
his cries then wrapped in silent sound
of death now taking one so young,
in a land so far from home.
They rest alone in simple graves;
their duty done, we let them sleep.
Can we keep what they have saved—
a republic made for us to keep*?
We hope they know we’re proud of them:
we’re awed by what they gave for us;
we’re sad for what they sacrificed;
we weep for lives lost so young;
our nation cries that they are gone.
We hope they would be proud of us—
a nation born of red, red blood
of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
proud to be Americans.
They who now are buried here
gave their lives with bravery—
lives then ended premature,
their blood the price for victory.
They fought the fight that freedom needs
with courage and with gallant deeds—
a fight so right, a fight so pure,
so this nation born of blood,
conceived in quest for liberty,
would yet live on and long endure.
We stand alert, our ears attuned,
listening as a bugle sounds
somber notes in mournful tone,
remembrance of the ones we love—
fathers, mothers, daughters, sons—
remembrance too of those unknown.
We’re proud of those now lying here,
joined together, yet alone.
We have no words but muffled moan
for those whose duty called on them
to fight the fight that freedom needs
with courage and with gallant deeds,
who died defending freedom’s song,
a song that still continues on.
We stand upon this hallowed ground,
hearing now the bugle’s sound;
and seeing them in distant mist,
we hear the tune of freedom’s song—
somber notes and muffled drum,
and marching boots of those so brave
who lie within a soldier’s grave.
Gathered here on hallowed ground,
echoed now in silent sound
of muffled drum and freedom’s song
are the boots of those so young:
May we keep what they have saved,
so we honor what they’ve done.
They died so we could keep that song—
such sacrifice from those so young.
Our eyes yet closed we look around
far beyond this hallowed ground.
We hear their boots now march again,
keeping time in distant mist,
steps precise, and muffled drum—
such sacrifice from those so young—
duty met and duty done.
And as our lives now move along,
we must remember what they’ve done,
their lives the price for freedom won:
They rest here now,
fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
soldiers, sailors, aviators,
and most of all, Americans:
We must always honor them;
we must always hear their song.
*attributed to Benjamin Franklin, 1787
Of Distant Mist and Muffled Drum (Freedom’s Song)
Copyright Daniel Mark Extrom 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this poem may be copied or reproduced without the express written permission of the author. Thank you for appreciating the rule of law! If you like this poem, please refer people to the site.
“of muffled drum” I like that.
Sharing my memorial day poem with you. It’s form is: color form so it’s three poems in one.
http://writingonthesun.wordpress.com/2012/05/25/honor/