Our hero on epitaph

our mouth owes a debt to your buried bones a hot lead cracked in a jiffy, and your brain splashed~ in the thick forest of Hanoi, with the stains sucked by soil as a flow thicker than water. many blood stains on our flags made too heavy for the wind to blow, yet draped on your casket with full honour cleaned by the courage interred six feet below. many souls lost, many heroes born, though mostly written as epitaphs still posthumous respect holds on, despite the strong winds of forgetfulness that grow like thick bushes around your grave, but couldn't stop the smile in black and white, framed in carved oakwood. your M16, with the last fingerprinted round, still stands beside Uncle John's M60~ a quiet testament that friendship has risen far beyond the soil, toward the vaulted hush above, where great warriors are welcomed among the watchful sentinels of the heavenly hosts~ the armed battalions of angels.