Lonely, fearful, quite unsure, the young man takes his stand.
His is the midnight watch, a deadly rifle in his hand.
His thoughts at first are full of war, of what he’s doing now,
He trembles as the midnight breeze blows cold upon his brow.

But as the hours pass his thoughts return to happier days,
To times of peace, contentment, of easy, lazy ways.
He wonders how this war began, he cannot understand
Just why he should be fighting to defend his native land.

“When I was a child,” he thought, “my friends were black and white…”
Just then a single shot rang out and split the peaceful night.
He fell, uttering curses on a man he had not met,
It was his turn to die, he knew, and he not twenty yet.

“Perhaps God, You know why…” he cried, as he gazed toward the sky.
And in the long grass, as he lay, that soldier slowly died.
Another time, another place, another life has gone.
How many lives must still be lost before this battle’s won?

04/06/1974

Posted on 04/04/2015
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