The Hills of Bastogne
The crop shall be full in Belgium next year,
The soil should be fertile, but the price has been dear.
The wheat should be red on the hills of Bastogne.
For its roots have been drenched with the blood of our own.
Battered and reeling we stand in their way.
It's here we are, and here we'll stay.
Embittered, wrathful, we watch our pals fall.
God, where is the end? The end of it all?
Confident and powerful they strike at our lines.
But we beat them back, fighting for time.
Berserk with fury, they are hitting us now
flesh against steel, we'll hold, but how?
For each day that we stay, more Mothers must grieve.
For each hill we hold, more men must we leave.
Yes, honor the men who someday come home,
But pray for the men, 'neath the hills of Bastogne.
handwritten in English on tablet paper, part of the display at the
Battle of the Bulge Museum at Bastogne, Belgium.
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