Some Little Thoughts

We hear of battles fought, of the dead and of the dying,
Of mothers, robbed of lives, of sighs, of crying.
We hear of generals, medals bravely won,
Of men, so dashing, that deadly duty's gladly done.

Fields of death, emblazon hallowed books,
And men of sap talk bravely, and fashion mental looks.
They dream of deeds, theirs, warmly recalled,
Oblivious of future generations: The shocked; the appalled.

But, in a field, not noble, where no-one will hail,
Unknown to most, who sought the battle's grail
Sit victims of war, the aged, infirm, the distraught,
Who look in wonder at what to them, this world has brought.

Where are the battle drums for a mother's tear?
Where are the squeals, of children's naked feet: A mother's cheer?
Where is the glory of the dead?
Who asks forgiveness for horrors, done on fields of bloody red?

In a hall, far from the children's birth,
In a country whose immigrants, sport no girth,
They sit to eat, to dream of world unknown,
And hope to plant new seeds, new youth not yet grown.

They cling to customs, to glories of days of yore,
They dance, they sing, the rich replaced by poor.
They wear no clothes of shining red and gold,
They are the spore of hatred, sung: Forgotten generation -- untold.