Freedom Through The Press Tears streamed down a broken face That stared to the ground where his father lay At lexington was he dying this day For a battle lost, and a war begun. In a young boys hand, A father lifted his head To look at a son, so confused and afraid Who understood not, for what his father bled Why he would fight, What reason for death. And so as they looked eye to eye The boys innocent lips formed the question, why? Then With inhuman strength, A father lifts dying fingers to sky Pointing to a cloth, flying on high His heart burns like fire, beats like a