They do not march now,
but they still stand--
shoulder to shoulder
in quiet granite lines.
Each flag breathes
like a memory fluttering
in the hush between heartbeats.
They are not just names,
not just dates--
they are echoes of last letters,
mud-heavy boots,
songs sung beneath a foreign sky.
We walk between them,
heads bowed,
and feel the weight of freedom
we never had to earn.
This silence is not...
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