There are sons of heroes, gaunt and grim, Who weathered the lean Depression; Their manhood forged on the anvil’s rim, In war’s infernal session. The youth of their day was a righteous flame, Survival, victory, freedom its name; They carried the torch through the smoke and fire, And built the bones of an age entire.

We were babes of the booming years, Fed on promise and plenty; GI Bills and Mickey Mouse cheers, And sitcoms bright and zany. John Wayne, Cooper, Reagan, and Jack, Echoes of battles that never looked back; Purple Hearts and Silver Stars shone, Citizen Soldiers – our fathers’ own.

The limb grew straight from the sturdy tree, The fruit fell close, as fate decreed; Camelot whispered its majesty, And teenage powers knew no need. We were bulletproof, five hundred pounds, Our courage blind, our ideals sound; Led by the Whiz Kids, bright and best, We marched with fervor, hearts possessed.

“Ask not,” we cried, “what you can take, But what you’ll give for country’s sake!” And off we went, our chance, our turn, To serve the land for which we yearn. But much was lost – discarded, sold, Maimed and broken, young and old; Combat’s residue, horror’s stain, Revealed too much of the human brain.

A generation of soldiers true, Not betrayed till the poison flew; Not dishonored till silence reigned, Not abandoned till hope was drained. We came back home, defenseless, shocked, By mobs that jeered, by scorn that mocked; Spit upon, ambushed once again, But this time not by foreign men.

Our scarred youth limped through the door, With Death’s foul stench forevermore; Blood on our hands, screams in our ears, Flashbacks replaying endless years. The Black Granite Wall behind our eyes, Etched with names, with silent cries; And still we faced the nation’s sneer, Its Woodstock was our M-14 gear.

The nonconformists raged in vain, Then donned the yuppie’s golden chain; Safe at last, they turned their coats, While we bore scars in our throats. The Silent Majority stood confused, Their empathy dulled, their pity diffused; The gap grew wide, the chasm deep, And Combat Veterans sowed what they reap.

The media’s mask was cruel and thin, Portraying us drugged, consumed by sin; Baby Killers with hair-trigger hands, Outcasts glaring through windowed lands. Ignored, slandered, spit upon, Our noses pressed where dreams were gone; On the outside, looking in, Marked by war, by death, by sin.

Now time has passed, a generation gone, The stereotypes eroded, withdrawn; The Black Wall honors the fallen dead, Whose sacrifice was vainly bled. My daughter watches the TV’s glow, “Tour of Duty,” “China Beach” show; She turns to me with questioning eyes, “Was it like that, Daddy?” she cries.

I dodge her words, I turn away, For truth is a beast I cannot say; Too much I know, too much I’ve seen, The horror that lurks where men have been. We were children of heroes bold, Weaned on broth of freedom old; Our manhood forged in war’s cruel flame, Our trials by fire, our bitter shame.

And now the war of our youth is plain, Not victory’s song, but betrayal’s bane; Survival, rage, and festering scars, Against all but Brothers beneath the stars. Citizen Soldiers, proud yet cursed, Bearing the burden, the endless thirst; Our ballad echoes through time’s long hall, A Service song for one and all. ~ J.O.S.

The Vigil of Liberty

Canto I: The Silent Majority

Once, freedom’s cry was fierce and strong,
A chorus of millions who knew the song.
They pledged their lives, their fortunes, their name,
To guard the torch of liberty’s flame.

But centuries pass, and comfort grows,
The fire dims, the watchman slows.
No tyrant storms with sword in hand,
Yet chains are forged across the land.

The silent majority drifts in sleep,
Their promises broken, their vows they no longer keep.
They trade their voice for fleeting ease,
And bow to rules designed to please.

Freedom demands eternal fight,
But who will guard it through the night?
The silence deepens, the crowd is still —
And tyranny thrives on the people’s will.

Canto II: Liberty’s Lament

She stands in bronze, torch raised high,
Her gaze unbroken against the sky.
A symbol carved from hope and flame,
Yet sorrow shadows her noble name.

She weeps for those who will not see,
The creeping loss of liberty.
Her warnings echo, fierce yet kind,
But few will listen, fewer mind.

Piece by piece, the rights decay,
Convenience steals them day by day.
The people slumber, blind to cost,
And liberty mourns what they have lost.

Her torch still burns, though faint and small,
A fragile light for one and all.
She begs the world to rise, to fight,
To guard the flame against the night.

Canto II: The Tyrant’s Whisper

No armies march, no banners wave,
Just subtle rules the people crave.
The tyrant whispers, soft, unseen,
His power cloaked in laws routine.

He does not strike with sudden hand,
But waits for silence to command.
Each freedom lost, each right denied,
Is met with shrugs, with eyes turned wide.

The crowd applauds the gilded chain,
Mistaking comfort for freedom’s gain.
And history asks, when bonds are worn:
Why did you sleep while they were born?

The tyrant smiles, his work complete,
The people kneel at his quiet feet.
Yet still a spark, though dim, remains —
A chance to break the binding chains.

Finale: The Dimming Torch

Awake, O people, before too late,
Your silence seals your children’s fate.
For liberty dies not in sudden night,
But in shadows dimmed by lack of fight.

Rise, rekindle the fading flame,
Defend the truth in freedom’s name.
Let tyrants tremble, let apathy fall —
For liberty’s torch must light us all.

December 11, 2025

~ the Author ~
Justin O. Smith Has Lived in Tennessee Off and on Most of His Adult Life, and Graduated From Middle Tennessee State University in 1980, With a B.S. And a Double Major in International Relations and Cultural Geography – Minors in Military Science and English, for What Its Worth. His Real Education Started From That Point on. Smith Is a Frequent Contributor to the Family of Kettle Moraine Publications.