I remember the day
they cut me from the quarry
I remember they sliced into me. Deep.
They trucked me far away.

More torture. My silent screams.
Smaller cuts now.
Like bug bites… With metal teeth.
Precise.
Names of fallen men.

I learn before they take me to my final
resting place.
I learn why.

And I am proud.

Names, crosses, diamonds, dots.
All hurt in their own way.
But it is a good hurt.
I suffer to help those who suffer more
recover, recuperate, remember.

Yes, it is a good hurt when
I see a young man fixated by his
father’s name.
An old woman brushing the tips of her
fingers against her husband’s engraving.
A smartly dressed comrade salute
his fallen friend.
I wish I could salute back.

So I am proud.
Proud to have been selected
for this
Eternal Honor.