1000 souls, your voices echo endlessly,
Lamenting that change is cruel and cold,
Childish joys indulged faithlessly in the past-
When, fresh-faced, you needn’t care.
While dreams were realized and dashed, mothers waited,
Lonely figures passing the mantle onwards,
Waiting to greet their pride, persevering despite the nay-sayers’ cries,
Even in the apron she bade him farewell.
Their pride carried on the shoulders of soldiers,
The funeral match travels on the wind,
Sealed in a box nailed shut,
Never to be seen, or even heard ever again.
I watch, she bravely welcomes her son,
Tears stream down but she is not ashamed.
A 1000 voices crying:
“Where is your pride now?”