SPIT AND POLISH AT ARLINGTON

Bagpipes cry over mounds of new dirt
Above the hill, bright skies canopy a mourning family
A procession of black cars winds its way to a uniformed sentry
Far off, horses and carriages wait to carry a soldier home

Ashes sit alone surrounded by thousands of silent voices
Gatherers murmur their goodbyes

One but many
One but many

A hundred times a day