And The Bugle Sounds

And the Bugle Sounds



The Tomb of the Unknowns
had yet to actually be
a tomb.Hope still bloomed
that all the soldiers
would be sent home.

Still, the dedication was planned
no one would know that no soldier
lay in empty coffin on that special day.
Point was that even the unknown
would have a special welcome home.

My grandfather's best friend
was chosen to play the bugle:
to play Taps on Dedication Day.
The newspapers showed his solemn stance.
The Flame was lit to burn eternally.

He told my grandfather the truth of the day;
feeling as if he'd misled the world.
Grampa said he'd honored the dead,
regardless of where the fallen lay.
He should be proud to play them home.

He gave my grandfather the bugle
gifted to him that empty day.
Grampa said it wasn't empty to honor the dead,
and he'd keep it proudly, forever bright.
His friend died in battle; in Arlington rests.

We still have the bugle, I brought it with me
when I laid a wreath. I swear I could feel
it reverberate. Felt like a date with destiny.
Full circle it traveled, returned to honor
those who now lay beneath the Flame.

Twenty-one steps. The sound echos.Honor
before all, for tis all that's left when a soldier's fallen
answering his country's calling.
Perhaps no tombstone bears his name,
but the honor and glory are his; just the same.




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