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Ariel Baptista Jun 2014
Perfect white crosses, symmetrical lines,
Blemish-free marble, a patriotic sign.
Markings we honor, examples we follow,
Why is it that I find all of these things so hollow?

Because before they were your crosses, they were your guns
And they did as you told them, exemplary sons.
And they were stained crimson, until you painted them white,
But I hear paint doesn’t last longer than spite.

Scarlet slurred sand, with a gun in your hand
You snatched up your victory, you took back the land
And with a soft tear for the sons that had died,
You erected their crosses, and in stone set lies.

You love your white crosses; it is for them that you mourn.
Do you forget the cities that by them were torn?
Do you forget the lives that were taken for your name?
Of course not, but you know that on white crosses it is hard to place blame.

So you ensure they stay as white as can be
And you sell the idea that by them we are free.
You call them true saints, but I know what’s real,
The truth is the wounds they inflicted may never heal.

A black gun falls down and a white cross you raise
Row upon row, you give them your praise.
Young names carved in slate,
How can they be anything but a symbol of hate?
How is it these white crosses are what you venerate?

Guns for white crosses
Do you think it’s a fair trade, over where they are laid,
To place a white cross and say all debts have been paid?
You honor them for their sacrifice,
Well let me give you a little advice.

If you wish to have power, then keep building crosses
By all means keep weighing the gains and the losses,
But do me a favour, and stop with the lie,
That murdering for your country is an honorable way to die.

— The End —