Souvenirs

We're weaving works of war, 
We've seen this road before
From Vietnam, in ol' Saigon,
We've bled on every shore...
At what price, our Liberty?
To breathe and live so vastly free?
The blood of sons and brothers?
The tears of grieving mothers?
How much does she demand,
Our Liberty's slaying hand?
An ounce, a drop, or more,
Of blood that's spilled in war?
And how many fallen tears?
Those flow for years and years
From bleeding hearts,
Bereft apart…
War's token souvenirs.

Sharon Frye