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At home, a mother is crying.
In Vietnam, someone's son is dying.
Here we are in our bush site,
lying still and low
Charlie's out there,
trying to make a stand.
We are here to resist his command.
Suddenly, the bush silence
is broken as if by a claymore's blow.
Everything is illuminated.
Frags are thrown.
Tra~ers streak through the sky
as if it's the Fourth of July,
and we're having fun
just like kids
when they're out to play.
But war is not for kids;
war is what a mother dreads
for she knows that it might be her son
who will come home dead.
Suddenly, someone yells,
""I'm hit.""
Another says, ""Get the Doc!""
And as we stood there that rainy night,
a lone star shone down on our friend.
In his last words, we could hear him say,
""Mother's crying. I'm dying.
I'm coming, Mother.
No more tears shall you shed.
No more fear of dying shall I fear
for I have fought and fought well.
Now it's time for me to rest,
not above but below
this war-ridden sky.