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The Flag...

The air is still, as though the earth has held its breath;
the tears that flow are triggered by the sound of guns.
Two soldiers fold a flag, for war has claimed a life,
which like a budding tree had barely just begun.

As parents hear the bugler play his final note,
the mother sighs, a grieving father holds her hand.
Nothing soothes the pain his loved ones still must reap,
a shiny medal in a box, his last command.

Friends shake their hands, not knowing what do or say,
The parents nod their heads and shake each hand in turn,
So difficult to leave him there, an only son,
who chose this life, and knew that he might not return.

Tomorrow, they will fold another flag up tight;
salute with guns that echo with staccato sound.
The Taps will play for one who'll walk the earth no more.
When will they see no victories are found in war?

Judith Anne Labriola

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