War reports of casualties,
Destruction and terror.
Bombs go off beside you,
This is no child's nightmare.
Boys who play toy soldier,
Now with real guns.
They've seen too much,
Killed too many,
They hate who they've become.
The death of their friends,
Are counted as winnings,
It's what disturbs them the most.
The cost is the price of innocence,
To that which war cannot boast.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem