The names are there.
  Reading those names returns their faces
  to memory's eye, those faces from so long ago,
  faces that will be no more remembered when we've gone.
  Their names may be forever there, carved into the stone.
  Yet, they will be but letters.

  Memory's ear hears their voices yet.
  But for how much longer?
  We are not immortal.
  When the sun has come
  as many times again as since last we heard them,
  most of us will be no more.

  The time and the war that took them is
  remembered only because we remain yet,
  and because those who encouraged their killers,
  still insist, with half-heart, that it was right to do so,
  while we, silent, turn away and remember
  their faces and their voices.


BY:  G.E. Farrell



  Though others mocked their loyalty,
  they accepted their responsibility.
  They answered their nation's call.
  Though fearful, uncertain, they risked all
  for "Duty, Honor, Country".

  The burden carried, the battle done,
  most who survived returned to their homes
  to pick up their lives, spend their days,
  determined to live in their own way
  for "Duty, Honor, Country".

  As time will, it has brought them age.
  Yet, were the bugle to sound today,
  though their step be slower, their hair be grey,
  they'd stand again as in olden days
  for "Duty, Honor, Country".

  Let us not forget their gallantry
  their willingness to leave family
  and friends for danger and uncertainty,
  to face the storm unflinchingly,
  for "Duty, Honor, Country".

BY:  G.E. Farrell




  A judge is stripped of his robe, a professor banned from his classroom,
  a politician mocked, for wearing war's laurels absent experience
  of war's peril.

  When truth's revealed, their supporters arm themselves with umbrage
  and denounce its bearers as once they did we who met the enemy.
  Strange indeed.

 BY:  G.E. Farrell