By Rosemarie Slavenas
His boots are empty now, the hopeful one who wore them ground beneath the juggernaut of war.
Where we laid him, a stone will stay, flags flutter, and flowers sway, watered by tears and rain.
War is cruel, and love must suffer long. But can it suffer so in vain?
Do you hear their voices calling from out those empty boots? We went where we were sent, and there we faced the worst.
Upon our broken bodies, dare you take a stand? Or will our deaths, just like our lives be lost in desert sand.