Two small graves, side by side,
Alone amid the woods,
Small crosses with painted names,
All that marks whose final place
This small patch of ground has become.
So many dead had no graves,
Their bodies left amid ruins,
Lying on battlefields, destroyed to pulp,
Burned for being too sick,
No place to bury them in hallowed ground.
This little clearing in the woods,
Is more than two graves,
More than two crosses, two brave heroes,
To those who remain, so many more
Are buried here in spirit.
And yet, in spirit, they are all free,
Blown about by the wind,
Sailing on the waves of faraway seas,
Soaring through the skies,
Whistling through the trees.
This is not the land of the dead,
But of the living,
The broken souls come to be healed
By the power of the memory
Of their fallen loved ones.
So many unknown,
So many forgotten,
So many remembered,
So many missed.
But this is not the end,
And as the mourners shiver in the wind,
The living swirl among them, and beyond,
Finishing their journey,
Home to freedom and peace.