The gentle wind whips the unsecured haylard along the abandoned flag pole,
overwatching the once busy parade field, now overgrown.
Here we stood, starched and shined, rows and rows and rows,
waiting for that final command, " Pass in review," oh so long ago.
The haylard, now rusting away,
used to be secured, twice, each and every day.
Like the the empty parade field, the soldiers there have come and gone,
and as if the haylard could sing a song, when will they all come home?