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Fifty-Eight Thousand Names
by
John A. Wilson
Fifty-eight thousand names inscribed on the wall
Stare back at me in silent reproach.
They seem to ask,
"Why did you get to live and we had to die?"
Fifty-eight thousand names is all that is left
Of those brave sons and daughters, husbands and wives,
sweethearts and parents
That bravely took a stand
And paid the ultimate price.
Fifty-eight thousand names, their voices forever stilled
That never again heard children laugh
Or watched a crimson sunset,
Or felt the warm embrace of someone they loved.
Fifty-eight thousand names of those that never returned
To be publicly insulted and spat upon
By those who did not understand,
And to be shunned by a society where they no longer seem to fit.
Fifty-eight thousand names, now peacefully at rest,
Spared the years of nightmares, pain and tears.
My bitter answer is clear,
"Maybe you were the lucky ones."
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