She laid cold against the stone
as we listen, the airplanes drone.
Pale skin and eyes closed, chosen.
Chosen for the fight to win.

Flowers in the breeze blowing,
her pale hair could be flowing.
The rain lightly, gently falling
as the bombs burst, angrily falling.

People fly and the ground shakes,
stones are thrown, bones break.
Dead bodies lie around like trash
on grounds turned to ash.

The flag still flies though,
for all of those,
that made the ultimate sacrafice.

A mother, niece, sister, and daughter,
killed in the angry, slaughter.
Never to see her son again,
so let not her death be in vain.

Remember her, respect her forever
because a link with a child she did sever,
so he could be free and live in America.

The flag will fly once agian,
if you let their deaths not be in vain.
Their's that made the ultimate sacrafice.

By: Your Everlasting