The flag flies over this land of the brave and the free
as a symbol of the liberty enjoyed by you and me.
It flutters in the breeze of a quiet afternoon
reflecting sounds of battles in which men died too soon.
The flag flies overhead in cities and in towns
where people seek a haven from worlds turned upside-down.
It tries, gallantly, to honor, on quiet afternoons,
memories of warriors — young men who died too soon.
The flag flies overhead — unseen, by some, it seems,
who hurry on their separate ways in search of private dreams.
It waves farewell then, it appears, with the rise of the evening moon,
it gently reaches out to touch the men who died too soon.
By John Posey