When I was a young girl I walked with my Dad
through the cold foggy morning at dawn.
He was holding my hand, but he was away
with the comrades he’d come here to mourn.

I watched as he took his place in the line
standing proud, with his head held so high.
The ribbons showed bright, and the medals all gleamed
and jingled as the line marched on by.

As he came past, he walked with his ghosts
half blinded from letting them in
and the lines on his face made him a stranger to me
and every man there looked like him.

The ones that stay young, they stayed with the men
through the speeches and wreaths and the prayers
‘til the Last Post was played and the ranks were dismissed
and the living reclaimed what was theirs.

I saw as a child how war takes a man
to hell, and then slaughters his friends.
He does what he must, in the battle’s red heart
and surviving means do it again.

Remembered again, remembered in vain.
New marchers arrive from new wars
and the battlegrounds change but war stays the same
though we ask What are we fighting for?

I’d rather see water flow through the land
than blood running red in the cities.
I’d rather grow food, and doctors and schools
than demonstrate new ways of pity.

Now I march for my father, and try to be proud
of the ribbons and medals I’m wearing.
But I know as I march that pride’s second best
to the love and the pain that I’m sharing.