To walk in the path of those footsteps before me,
Those that led to gilded gateways of valiant hope and glory,
Where freedom manumits fierce hands chained to death
And heroes' tales are written in martyred blood, stolen breath.
These stories shall follow me where'er I go.

Their basilic faces would make kings of us all
And shed away the wrongdoings of supreme,privileged blood.
Yet what makes us privileged than our deeds and our thoughts,
And the labors that brought us to what we have naught.
These stories shall haunt me where'er I go.

This certain romance that exists between future and past,
The tales of the old coincide with grieved souls that have left.
Those who were soldiers and battalions of fearless digress,
Have etched into memory the words we shall never dispossess.
These stories shall guide me where'er I go.

These stories, the ones that spur the emotions,
And tug at the heart, with all the dead's devotion,
Have reminded  us of wrongs that remain and are kept,
Locked away in the deepest part of the cage evils profusely *****.
These stories are remembered where'er I go.