Of War (Father's Day Version) Poem by Sebastian Blaqhárt

When the drums of war begin to sing their melody,
The soldier's feet march on to its rhyme,
On and on.

For every man is a son to a daughter,
And every father is a child to a mother.

Grandmothers sit by the window, Waiting for the return of their beloved grandsons.
Wives lie awake through the night,
Praying their men find their way home.
Children watch the door,
Wondering why Father seems so far away.

The moonlit stories once filled with wonder
Now carry the horrors mothers dare not tell their children.
Mama welcomes a new baby.
She names her little bundle of joy, *'Adebidemi.'*
_A crown born for me While I was away._

If Baba makes it back home,
He has something to bring a smile to his face.
Good news to mend his broken soul,
For he has lost comrades to bloodthirsty bullets.

For the war might be over,
But the battle with the self has just begun.

The drums in Baba's head are getting louder.
The pleading cries of women and children who died by his bullet
Echo loudly in his ears
Chaos brews at the center of his heart.

A thousand thoughts marching at once.
A thousand scars hidden beneath his smile.
A thousand bodies from the battlefield Still visiting him in his sleep.
Yet they call him strong.

Tell him to be grateful he survived.
Tell him to move on.
So Baba buries the screams beneath laughter,
Hides the tears behind weary eyes, Carries the war in silence,
He raises to work, to provide, and make the family happy.

For he was taught that men do not break.
But every night the drums return.
Louder. Closer. Relentless.
And though his body sits at the family table,
Part of him is still on the battlefield.

And just because a man survives the battle
Does not mean the war has ended.

So check on the fathers.
Check on the sons.
Check on the brothers.

For not every war is fought on a battlefield,
And not every soldier wears a uniform.