Oh God, they have names.
They have faces and heads that couldn't handle
The pressure of what was done
They have fingers that wrinkle when they play
In the water too long
And heels that dry into a map of cracks in the summer heat
They have teeth that freeze in pain
When they crunch on ice cubes
And clothes their brothers wore out
In the piles of hay in the barn
That's where one of them hid
As he watched his thirteen year old friend
Take three bullets to the chest.
His name was censored
Because he wasn't a martyr
Yet.
They have names
To their souls
All 13,000 of them
Even if we forget.