On Normandy's green fields
where the hedgerows still run
and the sands on the beaches
lie quiet as air;
on the bluffs stand the cross
and the star white and pure;
the flag of our fathers
flies high in the sun.
The battlefields calling
are seen by a few,
who have traveled great distance,
to set down their memories
for buddies they've loved.
And each waning day,
as the sea mourns alone,
the soft sound of Taps
roams over the fields,
saying, yes we remember
the brave deeds you've done;
we remember your faces, so caring
and young.
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