There's rust on the rifle
Holes in the old canteen
Jungle fatigues have faded
As many a warriors dream

Spit and polish soiled and muddied
shined brass is tainted and brown
Ribbons of war packed away in a drawer
Much like the historic men of Saigon town

Once sharper than a K-bar
Our instincts alive and well
We lived to die, refused to cry
No matter what the bloody hell

The helmets that we once cooked in
now heavy and obsolete
The jungle boots rotted and gone
no longer shod our feet

But The Wall of glassy Granite
Solid as the day that it was built
reflects the image and the loss of life
cuts like a knife shoved to the hilt

Unlike the aged soldier
who gazes upon the face
of the names etched deep within the rock
appear without disgrace

We are bound by blood and bound by war
bound together by our youth
still today that strength remains
An undeniable truth

I stand in the distance just out of sight
behind an ocean of salty tears
yet even time and space cannot separate
For my heart keeps returning here

"My heart keeps returning here "
The pain of youth renewed

Boon, 5/15/2001