A soldier stands before the dawn, awaiting his fate in silence
A cock crows, of years bygone, taste of coffee, muscles tense

The feel of the family flag, its tattered shreds bring sorrow
The sergeant cries, the captain barks, their bold words ring hollow

He dreams of long lost battles, where his forefathers in solace tread
Their memories bound in simple cloth, fading colors tribute to the dead

Of far off lands and foreign names, Corregidor and Saigon
Of worn out boots, and epithets, a dream of fear in early dawn

He wakes to sounds of bugle calls and crackling bleak wind
The waking sun cast wide shadow smiles as the old gods grinned

From the burning sun of Afghanistan to the bitter taste of Iraqi sand 
His eyes look ever west, toward his home, his land

He pulls out that worn canvas, its stars and lines laid straight
Of red, of blue, of white, of thirteen and forty-eight

He’s carried this simple cloth across myriad lands and climes
A weary sigh, a single tear, his broken body bows to time

Off to the Fates, a battle waits, for war is the cruel master of lifespans
The day is won, the sky turns red, and another friend pays the boatman

Return to base, the cold wind bites, the flag his sole companion
He collapses to sleep, his soul adrift, dreams of peace abandoned

For history repeats its doleful song, familiar chords of disharmony again
And so it passed from father to son, its charm of luck unbroken