I saw a picture in the paper the other day,
Framed by words that seemed to say,
"Here's someone who lives far away,"
And, "We took this picture yesterday."

But there were things the words never said,
Who is he, and why do his eyes look so sad?
Why does he stand by a brick wall,
And what secret pride lets him stand so tall?

For all those words say, in black and white,
He's just survived some important fight,
But why was he there when the shouts began,
What made him stay when others ran?

Would he have stood, so tall and proud,
Had he been amongst a crowd?
And, when Fate dealt out her hand,
Does he have friends who no longer stand?

Had he been born here, not there,
Would he still receive a nation's prayer?
Or would he look in the news,
Searching a picture for these same clues?

And, had I been born there, not here,
Would I stand tall, untouched by fear?
Would my eyes seem so sad, so old?
What would the words by my picture have told?

I saw a picture in the paper the other day,
Surrounded by words that had nothing to say
But that things were happening far away
That were over, had happened yesterday.