I stood on the hill over Arlington
Where my fathers before me were lain.
And thought of the peace in my green backyard
That they bought for me with their pain.
The score upon score of their brothers,
Still loyal in ranks beside.
Will march into Heaven in soldierly rows
When the Bridegroom calls his bride.
The sting of death does not touch them now.
They’re sleeping and waiting for God.
In the green, green hills of Arlington
’Neath the nation they saveds’ fair sod.
The Poetry Of Beto Ochoa~ Prose from a spiritual warrior
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