"I want you to become a man–
    do you understand?
    A man–
    that means useful to you homeland.
    I have faith in you...
    No, I don't have faith in you.
    I have faith in the blood
    which flows in your veins."

I try to imagine the route
    by which my blood came.

It is survival blood
    outlasting untold winters
    and unknown plagues.

It is stubborn blood
    finding fire and shelter
    and food to live by.

It is adventurous blood
    daring to cross oceans
    and barren plains.

It is courageous blood
    having fought off foes
    and defended honor.

It is sacred blood
    because it came to me
    from the beginning.

When I lose faith in man
    I try to remember
    not to lose faith
    in the blood which flows in my veins.

A young couple
      laying flowers
      at the grave
      of a still-born dream.

A sister
      sobbing not comprehending
      her brother's death
      on a hurtling motorcycle.

A white-haired couple
      straightening the flag
      and breathing a grief breath
      at a grave now 30 years old.

A mother and two children
      standing hand in hand
      misty-eyed at mystery
      over a missing one.

Grief passes you say...
      forgotten in weeks
      or months or years?

Yes–God's good time
      mutes grief's cries
      dries grief's tears.

But on some days
      memory stirs ashes
      to uncover hot embers.

Today I remember
      those who remember.