Ask the boys Whose hands were covered With the mud of their mother's grave, Ask them if they really knew What laid within the soil below their feet. Tell the boys Whose toy kits were the bones Of their closest mates Ask them if they knew The femur their father once owned Is now the fervour for the dog to crack: Tell the boys who were Snatched from the hands of dreams And handed over to imbalance When the single song of sorrow Tore their eardrums off peace.... Ask them if they still have dreams I doubt they will say no, They do have dreams they may never find. Mide Benedict War is nothing but the inactions of peace Peace and war are nothing but the actions of us
Where words are sacrificed at the Altar of Creativity