Eighteen

When I look back to my first eighteen years
Of unfulfilled potential, wasted youth,
I see reflected in your mothersí tears
The realisation of the bitter true.

The winless wars continue, and the pain
That grips their heartstrings stronger than a vice,
The bitter knowledge their sons died in vain,
The futility of their sacrifice.

Only the good die young, thatís why Iím here,
While all the suffering that Iíve been through
Remains unworthy of a single tear
Of any mother of this finest crew.

July 14, 2009

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