The Fallen

By Mark Fleisher

The government gave him a marble tombstone,
his widow a perfectly folded flag,
the raven-haired little girl,
the handsome little boy tugging at his tie
memories wrapped in wondering tears
staining their innocent smiles
He died in the desert,
metal shards leaving little trace,
an explosive device, the captain said,
just blew off his face
He died in a rice paddy,
face down in the filthy muck,
a sniper's bullet in his brain,
a run of lousy luck
He died on a mountain top,
a screaming artillery round
sent shrapnel into his body
defending a piece of worthless ground
He died at thirty thousand feet,
his plane blown from the sky,
didn't have time to parachute,
didn't have time to ask God why
He died aboard a destroyer,
a torpedo ran hot and true,
struck his boat amidships
bloodying the ocean once blue
She died in a prison camp,
serving proudly as a nurse,
comforting the dead and dying
damn wars—the devil's curse
He died in a foxhole,
fell upon an enemy grenade,
a posthumous medal for bravery,
war, you see, is no charade
He died some years later,
lungs shriveled by poison gas,
just a simple country boy
not of the privileged class
Gold stars affixed to windows
made dark by clouds of grief,
the agony of time passing
offers little respite or relief
The government gave them marble tombstones,
their kin perfectly folded flags,
and the little girls and the little boys
will always remember memories of a time
they will come to understand