War Child

My story, a changed title, the same message

War Child

As the world turns I often wonder why I stand still

Wanting to jump but grounded against my will

A Supersonic something streaks across the sky

“Can I go now?” I try, I try, and I know I can fly

I know my medal means I have done it before

I flew, I fought, and I did my best in this war!

I feel for the child, I am sorry for his pain

My friends, my comrades threw bombs last night again

Same world, same mountains, land and sea

Yet all the Generals say is “what will be will be!”

But that’s not right; this child has a choice, a will

He is not inclined to shoot, to bomb and kill.

This child, with jet black hair and eyes of innocent pain

No more than nine years old yet in a war again

I want to save this child to move him from this place

Remembering my child in the terror etched upon his face

Where are his parents? I try and ask with open hand

But he just stares at my rifle, he doesn’t understand.

His tear burns my skin as I wipe it gently away

I feel the guilt of a thousand soldiers on this day

Why did we come here and send death to this town?

What kind of story brought this black curtain down?

As we tear away the future of these children, wives and men

Will they ever have a home and a place to live again

This town was a legend; many stories were told

Of heroes and villains and beautiful girls and fights for wealth and gold

There were wizards and witches and gene’s and lamps and prisoners locked in a cell.

And magic tales of magic escapes and carpets flying because of a spell

Yet all these memories are now forgotten and left to rot in a grave

As now not even this little child understands the reasons men gave.

And so my tour here comes to an end, I can say goodbye

But looking at this little war child I simply want to cry!

The streaks on his face would look quite cute if I knew they were not tears

As I know these streaks that burn his soul are caused by burning fears

So where are his Dad, his Mum and his friend as my shoulder supports his head?

Thanks to bombs and the reasons man gave he is looking at them, laying there dead.

The holy man with a book in his hand, just looks up unto the sky

Shouting,"These are my family, my friends and my wife!" All he can do is cry.

Yet soon the soldiers will leave this place, the place they have burned to the ground

And even though they cry right now, they can't wait to sell the trinkets they have found.

This little child will grow up fast and the faces of hate he will remember

Just like the people he loved in his village, for these soldiers there will be no surrender

He will go to war with the Westerner dog and we will call him bad names

Never thinking once we created this child by burning and bombing his games

So, what have we learnt from the war and the pain, from all of the liitle war kids

All we have learnt is start all over again in a country we can't accept or forgive.

For not every boy from a poor town is armed with a weapon in his hand

Not every little, Scared War Child, wishes your death on their land.