Whispers drift through the twilight’s haze,
Echoes of lives lost in shadowed days.
Their songs rise soft on the evening air,
A chorus of courage, of love, despair.

From fields of battle where dreams were stilled,
To nameless graves the silence filled,
Each voice carries the weight of time,
A lament, a prayer, a mournful rhyme.

“We were the shields, the swords, the flame, We bore no glory, we sought no fame.
Our names may fade, but our deeds remain,
Etched in the earth, in the sky, in the rain.”

Through forests dense and oceans wide,
Their stories travel, they will not hide.
Each whisper a lesson, a plea, a cry,
“Remember us, we did not die.”

The voices linger in hearts and stone,
A reminder we’re never truly alone.
For in their loss, a light is sown,
A beacon to guide us, to atone.

So listen closely to the fallen’s plea,
In their echoes, a path to see.
Their voices call us to rise, to mend,
To honor the broken, to make amends.