It’s a good thing the next generation

takes charge; knows not first hand the painful past

except as story, music, photos, last;

silent cenotaphs address the nation

Memory’s mercy orchestrates a gentler key

than the dying cry from the last abyss

the sudden question, “Was it all for this?”

Better to lament, to honour, annually.

Life shrinks into the grave, the grave, the cross;

the cross into the rows ten thousand strong

where grass is always cut and wreathes belong

where, at times, we pause; our gain, their loss.

In your heart leave space for newly minted grief

sorrow’s weight is heavy, though it’s time is brief.