This granite once lay warm and still, surrounded by the earth;

Pain and trauma brought it here today; violence gave it birth.

Delivered to the world with surgeon's skill, and all the tools of the trade;

The quarry drills and the dynamite, the chisel and the blade.

It traveled rivers, traveled roads and rails, it became a mason's trust;

He carved and polished, oh, so tenderly, then he swept away the dust.

And I think I know the pride he felt when he watched it being laid;

That's how craftsmen are rewarded, that's how monuments are made.

The tourists journey here from miles around, different countries, states and towns.

They walk the path or just stand quietly; some will kneel upon the ground.

Their fingers trace the letters of the names of the friends they came to find;

Some leave medals, flags or written word, pieces of those left behind.

Civilians stand beside the veterans, some in groups and some alone;

Some wear remnants of their uniforms, all have come to face the stone.

And it stands as if with open arms, as a human begs embrace,

While the mason's polish frames each name, while it mirrors every face.

There's an index to look up your friends, alphabetically arranged;

Names are organized by date of death; I guess nothing's really changed.

I have used it as a guide to find those who I recall the best;

I have touched their names and talked to them, I have wept over the rest.

I've stood at the feet of Lincoln facing eastward toward the Dome,

Like a watchman over all the ones who are never coming home.

A list of nearly sixty thousand names -- what's a thousand here or there?

Call them heroes if you want to -- I don't think they really care.

I have reached an age of reason, I have sought and I have found:

I've learned painfully and slowly, I've flown twice the speed of sound.

I have touched part of six decades, from the forties 'til today;

I'm still learning how to question, I'm still learning what to say.

I've stopped searching for the real world, it's not a place that you can go,

But if I travel down this road a little farther, it might be something that I know.

In the meantime I'll remind you of these lives put in our trust;

I will polish, oh, so tenderly, I will sweep away the dust

From a list of nearly sixty thousand names -- what's a thousand here or there?

Call them heroes if you need to -- I don't think they really care.

In the meantime I'll remind you of the lives of those who paid.

That's how craftsmen are rewarded, that's how monuments are made.