The Memorial

It was black, with engraved names,
and people walked along it, up to it,
touching the names, bowing their heads.
I could feel their memories along the black wall,
the sighs were caught in the breeze that blew.
I wondered, how can they be sad to lose someone
who served the country to the ultimate degree?
They should be proud and stalworthy in respect,
like I felt, looking at those columns of names:
we had people who gave their lives for their country,
for our freedom and the freedom of others who faced
murder daily.  My memorial would be flowers,
not dark walls.  Flowers continue growing,
even after the blossom has died.