58,000 names
Chisled into black granite walls.
The hallowed ground in front of
This sacred, special place
Has seen roses, rings & letters,
Wreaths, money, trinkets.
It has been watered with tears of love,
Of grief, of pain.
A wilderness of emotion and memory
Is tied to the smooth dark stone.
Name after name,
Row after row,
Slab after slab,
Wall after wall.
Behind each etched name
There is a story of bravery,
Of courage, of hope;
But at the same time
You can read the grusome headlines
Of the unfeeling papers.
You can see the blood and the smoke,
The eyes of comrades
Glazed over in passing.
You can hear the gunshots,
The agonized screams of the doomed.
Is this a place of life?
A place of death?
A place of worship?
A place of pain? Of sorrow?
A place of memory?
A place of love?