A nation grandstands glory.
“Go, my son. Do your father proud.”
And the son always goes.
Thinking he’s nothing to offer here.

When young as old envies,
Charges as ordered,
Rapaciously configured,
“Your son died a hero,
don’t you know we made him
a murderer?
Be proud.”

And the real father weeps.
Progeny wasted,
To sharp blades of grass.
Too sharp to leave alone
On god’s green earth.

Earth that eats the love of your love.

Why do you let them go?

Why?