at seventeen
Was i,
So old
So young.
It was there
I first met war.

I saw their broken eyes
Those that returned
From vietnam,
A (so called)
American war.

They were the children
I knew,
Broken as toys
Discarded into
The lost echoes
Of a history,
Now unwritten
In our schools.

Sweet children
Lost to their sighs
Torn from their tries
Just names
Written on a wall,
A wall of tears.

At eighteen
I was
Willing to die,
But could cry no more.
I was willing
To die
But for love
Not for war.


– jude

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