They fold the flag with steady hands,
In quiet grace, a solemn stand.
Thirteen times the cloth will turn,
For every lesson we must learn.
The first, for life, a sacred spark,
A soul that lit the deepest dark.
The second, for eternal rest,
A soldier’s heart within God’s chest.
The third, for those who gave their name,
And met the fire, and took the flame.
The fourth, for trust when strength is gone,
When battles rage but dawn moves on.
The fifth, for country, brave and wide,
The hills, the fields, the rivers’ tide.
The sixth, where loyal hearts reside,
Where mothers wept and fathers cried.
The seventh fold, the soldier’s might,
That stood for home, for wrong and right.
The eighth, for those who came before,
Whose names are etched in memory’s shore.
The ninth, for mothers, soft and wise,
Who kissed their sons with tear-stung eyes.
The tenth, for fathers, proud and still,
Who taught of honor, strength, and will.
The eleventh, faith beneath the Star,
A prayer for peace both near and far.
The twelfth, for arms of mercy’s grace,
A hand to lift, a warm embrace.
The final fold, a nation’s trust,
In flag and soil, in bone and dust.
A symbol shaped, a vow made whole,
A folded flag, a guarded soul.
And when they placed it in her hands,
She felt the weight of distant lands.
Of battles fought, of nights grown cold,
Of love and loss, in 13 folds.
NEVER FORGET!
