The black of night brightens,
lifting the fog of dreams,
and the panic and gunfire softens
with the sun’s morning beams.
Dreams of those days fade away,
as well, the fear we had to face,
frightened and lonely, we counted days
‘til we left that awful place.
A new day now, and we hit the saddle,
mind the shiny paint and chrome.
It’s time for farewell, and a ride in formation,
to escort a brother home.
Bikes up front and behind the hearse,
we’re seated straight and strong.
The motors hum loud with lights on bright,
singing a last farewell song.
Along the streets and through the town
the bikers reach the grave,
riding solemn the honor escort,
and people stop to wave.
In our leathers, after all the years,
we proudly carry our banner.
We shed a tear and stand straight and strong,
all in good military manner.
We hear the words by the man at the grave,
as he reads from the holy book.
Giving thanks to God for the life now gone,
and a blessing for the soul He took.
Our flags are fluttering wildly,
they snap at the mid-day breeze.
An old soldier gone, his courage praised,
comforted, we know he’s at ease.
The bugle plays those mournful notes
and the flag is folded with care.
We render salute and stand straight and strong
as the guns fire into the air.
The soldier’s loved ones dab at their tears,
and when the last prayer is said,
we turn with our flags to walk from the grave,
away from the land of the dead.