And from the graves, where names were carved in stone, came a mournful Ballad, of life gone by. A Ballad sang by mothers, whose children left behind, and left to sing their ballads, of tears that did remain. And what of Fathers Ballad, whose job was not complete, who died and sang his song, of things that could not be. In a smaller voices, still weeping and confused, the children sang their Ballad, of parents never knew.And in some far off place, a Ballad did come fourth, of all the deaths that happened, that wasn't meant to be. A soldiers painful Ballad, did seemed so unjust, of the war that finally killed him, in a land he never knew. The Ballad, of unknown, thou human, none the less, were buried here alone, with not a one to care. In the quiet of a cemetery morn, the Ballad of the dead, echoes silently across green grass, and through the granite stones. It makes one wonder, about the Ballad of the dead, and what will be our song...when we are finally gone.