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The monuments salute above green lawns
covering them.
A sacred dedication.
Golden sun-ponds break the shadows
cast by noble sentries,
limbs outstretched over the waves.
Row after row of the honored,
who rest deservedly for the day,
and, for all of memory.
Quiet, so still,
the fallen lay.

Somber tourists stroll the path.
Only the hot and tired children
Perhaps sensing a mood,
an inward tone heretofore unknown
to them.
A moment’s pause,
before skipping along
carefree way.

Above, the flags fly,
a wave of color in the breeze
that knows white beaches.
Red waves lolling in on coarse sand,
Normandy turned scarlet.
Endless waves.
Like brushes dripping wet color.
Wave after mournful wave.
Measuring Freedom’s toll,
that fateful day.

© 2012 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved

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