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It's hard to find, the stories
That, they won't talk about
It's hard, to realize the things
That they had, to go, without.
How can they let the feelings
(Even, they don't understand)
Show to, any other people
In this, Freedom's Land.
We can't know, the hardships
Unless, we were there
Especially, when they came back home
To those who didn't, seem, to care.
Unless you had, lived through it
Watching, Comrades that had died
Why should they, talk about it to us
Of, the tears, inside, they've cried?
Even, if they chose to tell us
What difference, would it make
Would it be worth the chance
That they, would have to take.
Why should they bare their soul
That's already been, stripped, clean
Because, even with, a picture of it
We couldn't see, what they have seen.
Sometimes, all we have to do
Is, to look into their eyes
And think that we might see or hear
Their, mournful, pain-filled cries.
That POW who came home
Who lived, through that Hell
Can't tell the stories, of the MIA
Who never had, a chance to tell!
So, we may never, ever, know
Of, the horrors, they have, known
And, if we think about it
It's probably best, that they aren't shown!
But there is, always an end
To every, never-ending story
Although sometimes, they're never told
In, all their Truth and Glory.
So if you ask about it
And if you ever wonder why
They won't talk of that nightmare
Maybe now, you might know, Why? |
