Echoes Of The Silent Shore
One cold November, in the not-too-distant soon
the echoes of these shores will ever silent be
as fewer come each year to where their pals were strewn;
on Omaha, among the rest of war’s debris.
Fewer again will hear cannons roar, a rifle’s snap,
a bullet’s thwack, the screams of pain, the corpsman call.
And yet they come, the few, in regimental cap
across from far and wide, to stand, salute, recall.
One cold November, when the last of them has gone
will we still hear the echoes of the silent shore?
Will we remember what it is for us they won?
Or is it just the closing of another door?
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