War, A Poem

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A Sestina

War

Why is there always this war?

Always, the ultimate Fight.

We send what we think is a Man,

And we find he is only a boy.

Each is handed a uniform, a very large Gun.

And they’re taught the low value of life.

There is little we know, more soulless than war,

How it steals the heart of the boy.

For he’s nothing, not man, not dog, without gun.

And he knows it may cost him his life.

Still, he drives into battle, the fearless young Man,

He will ever so valiantly fight.

For each other, not country, they stand and they fight,

They wonder, is this the end of their life.

They fire, to exhaustion, the soldier, his gun,

for they know this battle may soon take the Man,

and they pray that it won’t take the boy.

While the elders sit, inept, not finding and end to the war.

It is not what they want, not the bullets, nor gun.

It’s not death, but the blessing of life.

Yet they march and salute and they charge off to war,

And into the breech, they go fight.

And the fathers still fear for the son turned to man.

They remember the man as a boy.

“Times, they are changing,’’ yells the long haired, young boy.

“We must never carry a gun.”

“We must leave our great country, not be like sheep, go to fight.”

So, they head to the Canadian North, refusing to fight to the man.

While those that were fighters, put it all on the line, even life.

Their battle now over, they seek only peace after war.

Old soldiers must watch, the past of their life,

And return, in their hearts, to the war.

The scars, the remembrance, the heartbreaking fight.

The feeling, the smell, the death of a man.

Forever lost is the heart and soul of the boy.

And they pray, together, to silence the gun.

What is war, but the sad removal of life?

Let’s us forever bury the gun, under ashes, to stop the fight.

Give the Man a chance, his very last chance,

                                                                                        at simply being the boy.