For those with memories they wish they could forget,
For every tear of every doctor for a life unsaved;
For the bones of those that died for those they’ve never met,
For every patriotic soul in an unmarked grave…

I thank you for your courage and your willingness to fight,
But I regret to say you’ve been assigned
Merely one minute of remembrance for your tragic plight,
Grim resolution and brave heart entwined.

Battered remnants of what transpired here
Now lie half-buried in the dust.
You may not have age nor strife nor fear,
But your weapons do have some rust.

Ragged soldiers with muddy, well-worn boots;
Blood, sweat and dirt: the marks of toil.
But ninety years on, we’ve forgotten our roots.
We’ve left them buried with you in the soil.

“– Not weary them, nor the years condemn,”
says the orator on your day’s dawn,
“– And in the morning, we will remember them.”
Some check pagers or stifle a yawn.

The man onstage sighs with deepest regret,
And murmurs the phrase, voice unsteady.
The crowd repeats softly, “Lest we forget.”
But so many of them have already.