We watched you go: “Come home,” we said,
the moon reflected in your tread
with our drums and guns, guns and song,
we called you Johnny, marching, gone.

A long time passing filled with dust,
the blood runs wary, turned to rust,
oh hear the bugle, haunting, long,
we called you Johnny, marching, gone.

A secret silence speaks your name,
a faded photo in a frame,
as morning breaks we rise alone,
we called you Johnny, marching, gone.

Behind a blurred and endless view
unrealized, we hardly knew
the road, a vast mirage withdrawn,
we called you Johnny, marching, gone.

The light dissolves and takes its leave
with too much time left still to grieve,
the tears are turning phantom dawn,
we called you Johnny, marching, gone.

A sway of shadows: only trees,
your presence hollow, shaded, ceased,
beloved husband, father, son:
we called you Johnny, marching, gone.