From inland mountains to the salt-soaked shore,
From China's border to the southern plains,
The earth lies drenched in sweat and bloody gore,
And tears keep falling like the summer rains.
Where is the peace we offered to restore?
What have we done, and who has paid the price?
Two million bodies live and breathe no more,
And corpses rot in graves near fields of rice.
A father weeps; his only son is dead.
Small children cry; their mothers cannot come.
A boy is blinded; old rags swathe his head.
Young widows beg the mercy of Quan Am.
The Viet Cong's unconquered force descends
And settles on fair Saigon like a pall.
Her doom is sealed; her hope of freedom ends.
In Vietnam, this spring is called The Fall.
It's time to go. We push the clamor back,
Ignoring shrieks from those we leave behind.
We slam the gates against their frenzed attack
And flee the press of desperate humankind.
We did our best; our best did not suffice.
We look around at all we've lost, once more.
We head for home and grimly sacrifice
Another country to the god of war.
(In Remembrance of 4/30/75)