Somewhere there’s a memory that used to be at home. A face reduced to photographs as time keeps marching on.
Somewhere there’s a tombstone seen less each passing year. A name from distant longings next to strangers just as dear.
Somewhere there’s an empty seat where we would share our bread. Now there is just what used to be for another soldier’s dead.
Somewhere we feel sadness yet know what tomorrow tells. For people are still dying and families living through that hell.
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