An ode to the child soldier
The colours of truth and the grapes of wrath,
Wonder if they look the same?
To the mind's eye that blinks to think,
and to the mother that seeks faith in pain.
The children came home, after the war,
wreaking stench, arms cut and minds drenched.
Did they savour those stories untold, which strangely,
had the same colour as the light that makes the rainbow.
For, hurt is sorrow and also the truth,
And the best shall always remain,
Not the cut hand, nor blood glistened rifles,
But the colours, the trees and that little girl,
Who threw a flower into the fields,Upon which grew the tree,
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