A mother's tear slips from her
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aging face, drowning the warping
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wood beneath her feet in fear and
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despair; her eldest son will sail
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to foreign soil,
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no: sand,
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this day.
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A war begins today.
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As the tear drop echoes off
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the deck, a twisted butterfly
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effect, the tears of a sharp-
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nosed, leathery, ancient man flow,
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forced out by the gas as
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his children and grandchildren
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and wife, enemies of Democracy,
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had been such a short while back.
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He stops, straightens his posture,
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and takes his stand.
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The war begins today.
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A thousand rounds for every minute
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pummel the tiny, mud shack. A young
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mother, age fourteen, lies motionless,
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a trail of darkened blood lengthening
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from the corners of her mouth.
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The baby will be silenced soon.
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The father rises from beneath
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the tin-roof rubble.
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His war begins today.
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A flag-draped box of finest manufactured
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cedar was carried, amid 21-gun fire
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and Taps, through my town square this
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morning. The propaganda spreads like a
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bubonic fever, infecting the crowds with
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pride for their dead son. They haven't
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seen the enormous, gushing hole
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in the back of his clean-cut head.
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My friend is carried among swine
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in front of my tear-swollen eyes.
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My war begins today.
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|
But wars are begun not by spilled
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blood of innocents, not in honour of
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long-dead champions of valour.
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War is only truly begun when done
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in name.
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In the name of the ambitious, the
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influential, the powerful, and the
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cutthroat; the unaffected, the
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conservative, and the religion-
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ridden radicals. In the name of
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cowboy justice, diplomatic immunity,
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moneymaking schemes, and pro-
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paternal aspirations. In the name of
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God him-Almighty-self, Allah, and Yahweh.
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But never, not in dreams untold,
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in the name of a weeping mother.
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Not in the name of a fiery,
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idealistic, resolute guerilla fighter.
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Not in the name of a young father, forced
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to bury his children and wife.
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Not in my name.
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