Come enter the gardens of stones, this is what the centuries of war has grown, with brave offering of the blood of the valiant, the sparrows, the wrens, their songs sweetly trill, then the quiet, the speechlessness of solitude, of the mourning ones in their soul's barren winter, marble, granite, gives it's own testimony in the many rows of ivory headstones embraced, wept upon, kissed. The silence of the soldier's once vibrant joy of youth of the ages of eighteen, nineteen, twenties, The virtuosity of their commitment to arms, of their offering of their own lives, in the seasons of perpetuity