By Andrew R. Duckworth
I was blind before I walked between white stones,
Blind before I glimpsed engravings of years,
Blind before I saw a father’s tears.
Eighteen seems too young,
But we strapped a rifle across his chest,
Made him blend with sand,
And sent him to fight in a hell.
Of course, we watched the news,
Sitting in armchairs, flipped the channels-
Sitcoms, reality TV, time for bed-
While a fury raged inside their heads
Knowing soon they could be dead.
How many boys were sent and came back men?
How many boys were sent and never heard again?