To
All The Young Warriors
How
say you, young men and women surging to fight,
Fleeing
countries that may have bullied you
Or
may have not,
Countries
that might have invaded or at the least
Benefited
by it? Countries full
Of
men, women and children who cannot
Guide
those that choose to act upon
Lands
far from their suburban homes and televisions set
While
they watch the Politicians and Fanatics claim
Actions
done in The Name of The One True God
(Who is not your God) to mask the
stealing of oil or gold,
Or
the acts performed out of fear of losing control.
How
say you, young men and women who think you
Are
the first? That this Righteous Fight has never been
Fought.
That your blood lust is precious and original.
That
the words you hear have never been heard.
That
the swelling inside your chest fit to burst
Has
never been felt before; has never bloomed
And
you now think it does in your time alone?
Do
you truly believe that your blood
Taking
other blood will quench a thirst?
How
say you, as you stand there with your weapons
Praying
to deliver a victory by killing innocents?
And
what of the terrorized women fearing rape,
For
they know they will be, they always are,
And
have no say in this?
And
what of the children who will be maimed, killed
Or
sent homeless and orphaned
Into
the smoldering ruins of an uncaring world?
You
think you are the first, but you are not.
Not
even close.
Think
of those ancient warriors who heard the call
And
gathered before the colossal walls of Troy
With
their shining armour, the lustre
As
bright as the souls you claim are your reward,
Their
swords catching the sun
As
you think you catch the eyes of Your Lord.
Think
of the littered dead of El Alamein, those broken bodies
On
both sides, soldiers poor or ignorant or seeking glory
Or
thinking they had only one life to give for God and Country;
Did
they not heed the call as you now do?
Think
of the Dixie greys running towards a slaughter
Or
the Zulu warriors running against the bayonets
The
Crow or Aztec, the Indigenous or weary transcript;
Each
young man and woman, each warrior or farmer or son
Or
daughter or lost one thought they had found the cause
And
fought the fight that was Just, fought the fight that must be fought.
And
what did they gain…these young men and women who flocked
As
you now do,
To
lands scattered as far as any bird has ever flown?
Death
to themselves and to those they fought.
Peace
sometimes but never for long.
Pain
to those they loved and to those they didn’t.
And
their Gods —
Did
they rejoice in the death? Do you truly believe that?
Who
profited from all those deaths?
Someone’s
God? Or is it that He or She that has had many names
And
many forms always finds Themselves as a banner
For
those that go to war, is that what a God is for?
And
what of those who say they fought for their Homelands
Desert
or Forest, Farmland or Savannah? Do you think
A
Country needs so much blood, that it needs a generation
To
fall like leaves and smother the ground for Its cause?
Could
it be those who have always profited on the dead,
Who
have always fed the minds of the young, urging them
To
chase the shadows, young minds
Led
along by the cruel whispers of the hiding men,
The
lurkers in shaded corners, the bean counters, the weapon makers,
The
givers of orders, the heedless of consequences,
Might
not they be the ones you are really fighting for?
I
ask that you reach down and grasp a handful of sand,
Count
the grains, each one a warrior such as yourself
Turned
to dust, each with dreams that matched yours —
And
while we may remember Achilles, remember
He
knows nought
But
blows across the ruins of Troy, mingling himself
With
Hector and the bones of others who also died.
And
think on this, young warriors wanting to fight,
Think
of all those others who stood upon or beneath
Those
mammoth walls of Troy and thought they too fought
The
Good Fight that would change everything
And
found, or died before they could, that it did not.
