Second part, the funeral. |
He Was My Best Friend II I hold the hand of a mother, Her son was also my brother; We had fought together, In any type of weather. I see pain in her eyes, And her heart slowly dies; We watch the flag fold, Our hands become cold. I look up at the sky, And try not to cry; He’s in a better place, He will meet God face to face. I become mad, And his mother becomes sad; I stand up and walk away, This is an awful day. I drop to my knees, And my body begins to freeze; I wish war didn’t have a high fee, Instead of him I wish it was me. I can’t be strong, All this happened wrong; He was suppose to come home by my side, But instead he died. His mother grabs my hand, But I can’t stand; I’m overwhelmed with pain, The hurt I feel is a permanent stain. I begin to feel shame, For his death I am the one to blame; I told him everything would be fine, His death should have been mine. I walk to the grave, He could have been saved; I touch the tombstone, My pain has grown. I begin to salute, I hear the rifles begin to shoot; A tear comes from my eye, Then I begin to cry. I stand there for hours, And fix all the flowers; Then I sit in the chair, I now know war is not fair. His father stands over the burial site, I see the sadness he tries to fight; He will never forget his son, Knowing he died next to his gun. The sun slowly dims away, And I begin to pray; My last regards are what I send, He was my best friend. Clayton Williams 4/29/11 |