Softly, softly the waves plash over the ship
Broken, crushed beneath.
The cries and groans, pleas for help
Are muted. The air moves gently.
No fighters shake the island skies now,
No frantic footsteps hurry amid exploding bombs.
Quietly, the green lush growth
Hides what’s left of wreckage:
It isn’t much. Life goes on,
As is its wont. Sleeping a Sunday stillness,
They woke to fire and pain, and died of it.
Does anyone but me remember
A Day of Infamy?
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