The millions of memories were left to just one man,
The sole survivor of a life that we can't understand.
Now that man is lost to us, gone to a better world;
He took with him those memories; we're just left with words.
The War is now statistics written in a book;
We can't see every single sacred life it took.
An occasional two minutes when we have the time,
And a momentary "Thank you," for giving us their lives.
Then we return to our own lives, to our own careers,
To our friends, our families and all that we hold dear.
We take for granted freedom in our choices on our path,
Rarely thinking how many never had the chance.
The human mind can't visualize quite that many men,
And if it tries it cannot see how every one of them
Had a life ahead of them, every one potential -
That every one gave that up when it seemed essential.
So many boys, just out of school, curious and keen,
Handed War their future as they signed up for the team.
The wife they never got to meet, the child they never had -
When they're just statistics it doesn't seem so bad.
Each one had strengths and weaknesses; talents, failings, skills,
But we remember not their lives, but just how they were killed.
To be Death there must be Life; a path before Death's door,
But we don't see each one of them. We just see the War.