The lost order of the sons of liberty
Lies in the neat tally of white stones,
Where the chaos of destruction
Becomes the order of memory.
Cold marble to mark a life passed
Adorned with wreaths of dying roses,
Cut from stem to serve their dues,
To flourish as a symbol and die.
No one sees a rose in death,
They wilt and fade to dust;
A rose is always full and pure,
Always blooming in the face of love.
This emblem of the bravery of love
Lives forever as a symbol of unity.
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