The Greatest American Generation

They came with dust on their boots and a morning star, Shadows of boyhood still clinging to their shoulders— They were sons of the land, faces bright with the dew, Carrying small, cherished photographs in their breast pockets. They rose with the sun’s trumpet call at dawn, A summons to arms, to fear, to death— Yet they did not tremble, They carried the burden like a hymn on their lips. Mothers with hands trembling at kitchen sinks Counted each day as an offering— Each letter a balm, each silence a wound. Their prayers rose with the smoke of factory chimneys. The beaches were gardens of iron and flame, Where the sea’s voice met the cry of youth— The soil drank of their blood, And the wind carried the story homeward. O Freedom—your price is the soft hush of sacrifice, The echo of a last goodbye in the night— They sleep in quiet fields now, Their names folded in the flag’s bright embrace. Pride blooms in the hearts of those they left behind— A tender ache, a candle that will not be quenched. We walk in their footsteps, grateful and small, Ever humbled by the price they paid for us all.