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Once, in a time of innocence
I waged war against war,
invoking the power of peace
in silent protests
and others more vocal, active,
waving signs I did not want to write,
singing songs I hoped to never sing again,
chanting words I did not want to hear.
I knew where the flowers had gone;
I placed them there myself,
in graveyards
and at the wall.
Now, from a vantage point decades older,
I re-read old letters,
and browse the albums in my mind.
I remember the first soldier I loved,
the injustice of his dying.
I count the friends who followed him,
and those returning maimed, spirits shattered,
I see it happening again,
wrong war, wrong place,
with armies of our children marching
into silver coffins, winging to the unfamiliar
to be marked in blood.
Yes, I remember that song about flowers;
it dances from shadows of my mind,
spiraling with renewed grace.
I am writing new signs,
composing new songs,
resurrecting chants and slogans,
because we haven’t learned.
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