Our sons have no colour nor creed
these men who wear the flag of their lands with such pride
we carried deep inside our bodies safe
with such love...
They are every mother's son
named at birth
there are no faceless bastards here
only someones son,
fighting in wars no one wants
as mothers watch, weeping in agony
seeing our children slaughter each other mercilessly.
We musn't forget, in anger and hate
that somewhere another mother grieves
her son bleeding slowly... dying by inches
defendng his ancestral home.
If war has a colour..
it is the rich crimson of death.
it gouts from torn flesh the same way for us all.
every mother's son
belongs to us all
as we weep for our dead children
no matter where they are