Dale Lloyd

The fuel of war, they say, is youth.
I wish it wasn’t so.
Perhaps the ones in soft-lit rooms—
should be the ones to go.

Hundreds of thousands, young and strong,
their voices stilled,
their unsung songs.

And how “honoured” they must feel—
we give them just one day,
two minutes bowed in silence…
then hurry on our way.

Politicians—commanders too—
return to maps and charts,
to plan the next grand theatre,
to play again their parts.

They covet what they do not have,
their hearts consumed by lust and greed;
they’ll annex their closest neighbours’ lands
and call it a noble deed.

November… you have come again.
I wear the flaming poppy proud.
I honour all the fallen ones—
their memory cries aloud.

I hate that no one seems to learn—
the lessons never understood.
And so the madness carries on;
new graves await with each dawn.