Patrick Maitland | + Follow Poet |
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War

Youths are marching, heads held high
Hear them laughing, while mothers cry.
They think that war is just a game
Few come back to tell its pain.

The Generals come, with all their braid
Planning how war will be made
With the injured here, and the corpses there
If you lose a limb, they don’t care.

Yes! They will have blood for sure.
No matter how much, there will be more.
War!. The drums beat. War!
Marching Feet. Kill some more. War!

Real War?
There are no drums to give the beat
To weary marching feet.
They are blistered, tired, too sore.
To take just one step more.

Real War?
There is no little trickle of blood
The rivers of red are in flood.
Bones are shattered, limbs severed
It does not matter; to The Cause we’re fettered.

The machine guns crackle, the bullets thud
And everywhere, spurts bright red blood
Bodies are torn, bleeding bare
Eyes wide open into Death they stare

Oh Lord! Just for a single moment, wrench
Me from the rotting corpses with their putrid stench.
Take me back to that distant shore
When there is Peace, and I am home once more.

May I see a sunset red
Rather than the bloodied crimson dead.
May I feel soft gentle rain
And not the storm of war’s raging pain. 

Then one day the bullets stopped
There were no screams, no bodies dropped
For Peace had come, though somewhat shy
But it gained in strength as time passed by.

Now we saw that our deadly foe
Looked just the same as the friends we know.
Who made us into a cruel machine
That had to kill a human being?

Oh God! How did it happen?
Who taught the children
To fight when they were men?
Please, let there be no war again.

Men are dancing, spirits high
Hear them singing, while mother’s sigh
Now they know, war is not a game
The few who are back have felt its pain.

Copyright © Patrick Maitland | Year Posted 2012

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