Black Granite




   By Bill Willson

I stand before the cold stone wall

My eyes fill with tears, heart so heavy,

The writings so small, and the wall so massive.

I press my hands and face against cold blackness

How many gallant lives does it take,

To convince humanity, war has no victors?

The clouds darken and the cold rain comes down;

No matter, my heart is already chilled,

Its as cold as black granite in winter.

I walk slowly in the rain to the end of the wall.

So many names of soldiers long dead,

Their young lives lost,

With little to show

Only their names on this monument.

Sixty thousand souls lost, not counting the missing,

Yet if truth were known all are missing

From wives, husbands, children, mothers,

Fathers, friends, and our nation.

Incalculable in terms of human progress,

If they had but lived to fulfill their full measure.

And what of the material loss

To carry them into battle?

Civilizations wealth spent on destruction and death

Breeding hatred and revenge in the hearts of children.

Wealth which could better be spent on education.

Education to teach wars horror, and death=s finality.

The challenge to search for an alternative,

Or to discover the horror of the

Blood soaked battlefields.

This was but one small war

Since the beginning of time,

How many more, until we learn the lesson?

Blood lust is fanned by hatred and greed.

The real losers in war now bury the vanquished.

If they fought with courage to protect their homes,

Both winners and losers, ascend with the just to their home on high

Let all mankind say in their hearts, I will fight no more,

And let peace reign over the earth

About bmwillson1936

I was born with writer's DNA, but it receded to the depths of my soul when I encountered the bitter facts of life.Much later after five decades of living I was assigned by my employer to write legal conveyances of land documents, and this drew out my natural love of words and putting ideas into the paper prison. Thus began my quest for publication.The road was long and bumpy, with occasional pitfalls, but I'm staying on until I can no longer put words on the paper that make any sense or serve no valid purpose. Here's to rebirth and the celebration of writing
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