First a baby's cry,
Then a fond good-bye.
Foreign lands where cannon's roar,
And always, always finding more.
The youth fill these foreign graves,
As years go bye and more succumb.
I am tired of this march of death,
And the lives lost, leave me numb.
Peace, are you but a word,
That lets another generation grow,
Only to die a soldiers death,
Where now the poppies grow?
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The cannons have not been silenced, and the poppies grow to create the opiates for the masses, while babies continue dying.
What a waste… What a waste. Your poem is a poignant reminder.
Ron
hug
Kathy