They find comfort in walking
Walking consciously
Walking with the rest
Walking to remember and remind
Those who forget

Lost to the throngs, their footsteps
leave no shadows, no prints
as if frisked away by playful waves
on a beach of childhood innocence

Rising from the vortex
they walk onto the land
looking for what they lost
in the currents of their times

Wading in the maelström
They hold each other’s hands
Crying for what they believe is right
In a precious bog land

This is how they are made
The anti-heroes
The uniform-less men
Lost in tear gas, shot in the breast
No flags to shroud their coffins
No movies in their names
Forgotten and happily dead


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