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Where The Dead Go And Why It Matters
I ask not shadows whence they come,
Nor where their silent footfalls lead;
The grave is mute, the mouth is dumb,
Yet still it speaks, above the land.
The dead are writ in flesh and stone,
In echoes cast from ice to flame;
Their march is onward, not alone—
We follow, bearing blood and name.
They go where time has lost its teeth,
Beyond the crown, beyond the rod;
Their ashes drift in winds beneath,
Their spirits rise and rest in God.
It matters not what tombs proclaim,
Nor how the mourners bow and weep;
For in our veins survives their claim,
The dead still guard the lives we live.
So let me walk, though night is vast,
Unfearing, steadfast, to the last.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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