I ask of you general, giving the orders
To, after the battle you’re planning is over
To notify each family of every fallen soldier
Whom your troops, your orders, have killed.
To go to the wives, to the children, the parents
Of the people so hated by you, or so loved,
And look in the eye of the grieving old mother
And tell her her son has been killed by your troops,
at your side.
To tell her he died for another man’s pride
To tell her the story of how in that gutter
The sounds of the guns kill all thoughts of her love.
Yet rarely did the families of
even your soldiers
See you speak fully of separate deaths
You watch, as she staggers, and bellows, and
cries
You think, how mistreated she is by the skies
Which stretched o’er the battle, and to which she sent prayers
a few times on each fighting day.
And I think that maybe the prospect of entering
Their mucky, or welcoming, homes with such news
Will make you consider the death of both armies
And hesitate before sending men through the noose.
