Poem – Chichamaga Tennessee

Chickamaga, Tennesse
Blades of grass bow low in the wind
As it sweeps down off the foothills into the valley
A sense of peace and sorrow send
Me moving forward hesitantly

Age-old woes of freedom rang
As the blood of brothers spilled
Along the land of torment, with each deafening bang
Our country’s children fell upon this field.

The drum beats low, vibrating off the land
Each sound a warning of death to come
As fate reaches down her exacting hand
Beckoning forward those far too young.

Sing a song of soft lament
Fesl this barren fields old torment
Walk along the path where blood ran cold
Sense the souls of warriors old.

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