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And from the graves, where names were carved in
stone, came the mournful Ballards, of life gone by.
A Ballard sang by mothers, whose children left behind,
and left to sing their ballads, of tears that did remain.
And what of Fathers Ballard, whose job was not complete,
who died and sang his song, of things that could not be.
In a smaller voices, still weeping and confused,
the children sang their Ballard, of parents never knew.
And in some far off place, a Ballard did come fourth,
of all the deaths that happened, that wasn't meant to be.
A soldiers painful Ballard, did seem so unjust, of the
war that finally killed him, in a land he never knew.
The Ballard, of unknown, thou human, none the less,
were buried here alone, with not a one to care.
In the quiet of a cemetery morn, the Ballard of
the dead, echoes silently across green grass,
and through the granite stones.
It makes one wonder, about the Ballard of the dead,
and what will be our song...when we are finally gone.
© Joe Fazio
Joe Fazio (best of)
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