(Image copyright: Heart Radio, June 14th, 2017) Beneath the bridge, beside the road, a company lies down their load. A single face is worn by all, darkened by the midnight call. No sign will point, for them, a way to keep their memories at bay; a silence in the wake of screams is quieter than peaceful dreams. These are the heroes without name, who caught the constellation's fire, who fought for freedom, not for fame who sought our children in the pyre who ran to hell when ang

Running through the wheatfields, With the last of the woods laid low, Our company heard a cuckoo, In lament we rose to sow. A mist from our boughs ascended, Out of daylight a moon shone clear, A stain from the sky descended, And the flood crept slowly near. No ark has come to save us, Not a branch or political wave, But castles in the sky are sailing, With the wind of yellow brick days. (After Kinsella)