Stamped Steel

In my uncle's old cigar box, full of dust and dry air,

a metal shape, cold and flat, was waiting there.

It clinked against the wood, a sharp, quick sound,

the only thing in that silence, I had found.

A dog tag, tarnished silver, dull and thin,

with faded numbers, an unfamiliar name dug in.

His brother, maybe? A ghost I never knew.

A boy who left, for something he had to do.

It felt so light, yet heavy, in my hand it lay,

a small, hard piece of a long-gone day.

Just a name, a number, a silent, cold demand,

from a past that still presses, on this land.