The youth that was harvested, like wheat from the field,
would be sent to the battles, thrown simply to the wind.
Here, no man escapes, and boys never become men,
the flowers of their youth, spent like cheap wine.
Places and time, just waiting to war.
Must there be others? For again, we will mourn.
For glory! For purpose! For country, we are told,
but can those who would wage, even begin to pay the toll?
I know for myself, my life I would fear,
be lost on a battlefield, would you shed a tear?
And can those who decide, who lives, and who dies,
be willing to stand, in that soldiers eye?
