The Colonel stands in solitude before the rising sun,
victorious, but grieving for so many lives now done.
On a tree stump in the Valley waves the US Flag;
a symbol of such pride, but still his weary shoulders sag.
He looked upon his troops just like a father would his sons --
protecting them was listed as Priority Number 1.
And now he feels a failure to those boys who breathe no more;
whose lives became a memory – a residue of war.
Reporters show up on the field, bombarding him with questions,
but he just walks away, ignoring all their false attention.
He'd voiced his thoughts to one, who shot both camera and a gun:
“You have to tell their story; tell them how my troops died, Son.”
Now he can see the shadows of those boys all standing proud,
saluting him, before their souls are swallowed in the cloud
of dust the chopper blades are churning up as it lands down,
then one by one, those shadows fade away, without a sound....
The last to step aboard, he turns toward the field again,
and prays for all the fallen, whether enemy or friend.
The horrors of this Valley fight will never free his heart,
just like the shrapnel wedged within a soul now blown apart.
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