Our children are calling to us,
calling from the living ground.
The sleep of graves may their rumbling,
but the most thunderous tossing
Arrives in this; our world's living.
Let us not hold here our shame;
Shame that dwells behind our gaze,
But give consent to shape indignity,
Fashion it so as to usher in serenity
And free us of the woeful echoes of war.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
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