He sits as quiet as the Buddha, legs crossed,
Serenity adorning the wrinkles cornering his eyes,
And I respect him as much
For what he has not said, because we know
What he has done, this man from an olive farm
Near Oroville,
Beside the son of a cane cutter from Hamakua
Beside the brother of a meat inspector from Torrance
Beside the father of a doctor from Aiea;
Building bridges in the Po Valley
As astonished German prisoners marched
By wondering why their Japanese allies
Were fighting for America.
He never flashed his glory, but fought his battles
Against the horn worms and the summer rain,
Patiently pulling up his family
Through the bright tomatoes. He was a victor
Every year his children grew another inch
Or two. He deserves the serenity
Of the man who has won what he was fighting for.
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