Like generations that have fallen before, you fell on distant shores from the guns of war, My earthly soul pauses everyday, and I come this way to honor always the gallant in repose, Clutched in my hand are black roses, black roses for the youth, the eternal youth. On this spring morn, your young widow walks beneath the maple trees dressed in emerald crowns, her long chestnut brown hair partly covers her delicate downcast face, she breathes deeply, then prays, Suddenly, thunder, as if a dirge from the North, God's paean to you, Sorrow pierces my American bearing, I'll never cease answering the call to mourn, as the cemetery workmen mow the grass, the black roses leave my hand, and cascade down to the hallowed dewy ground, My bereavement without an end, without an end.