The Wall

Pencil rubbings on paper spell the name of an old friend
Thirty-five long years and still the pain time cannot mend
He drops a knee and bows his head for words cannot be found
To most the wall means little but to it his heart is bound

Fingers trace the countless names forever etched in stone
Despite the crowds, aside from these, the man is all alone
His company lies only with the names of those brave men
Though their time has been forgotten, to him they still are kin

Together they were soldiers, fighting in jungles and in mud
As soldiers, they were brothers, bound by one another's blood
They fought a war that wasn't theirs yet had to pray the price
In debt of that, all we can do, is not let it happen twice

He trembles as he stands and he winces not of pain
Regretfully, he cries for what was lost and what was gained
While solemn crowds go by, unknowing yet in awe
The immeasurable cost of war yet again eluding all