In Spring one year
I walked along a preworn path
The sky was clear
Who could suspect the aftermath
Along the path I met the wall
Its cold, hard surface caught the eye
Etched upon the slabs were heroes all
Chilling, yet touching to passersby
I can barely express with a stave
The emotion stirred by such a sight
Of the names of the soldiers Vietnam sent to the grave
The wall of names in D.C. seems to utter “was it right?”