Fearful the Heritage.
So many still falling, victims to hate.
Are wars meant to cease before it's too late?
Bodies in bags arrive, heavy with grief.
Boys dressed as men, never find war relief.
Bombs cannot be answers, for hurt or pain.
How much blood needs to spill to make it plain?
Wartime's young poets described scenes of hell.
Their verses remembered only too well.
Brave folk abound, and our heads to them bow.
But what will such trauma to our young endow?
Fearful the heritage, costly the price
If love loses out to futile advice.
To wage war still shows no pity at all.
But merely a future heading for fall.
Only peaceful goodwill, if seen to remain,
Will ensure the fallen have not died in vain.
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