This is a poem I came across a few years ago, and I do not know who wrote it. I was told it was found in an anonymous WWII scrapbook that had been picked up at a White Elephant Sale. If anyone knows who wrote the poem, or if it is copyrighted, I’d appreciate hearing from you.
The poem is written from a maternal point-of-view, which point-of-view resonates with my soul.
Okay then, here’s the poem:
While I am rocking you, my son
And singing lullabies;
Someone is planning stouter planes
For Death to ride the skies.
While I am dressing you, my son,
In little boyish suits,
Someone is making uniforms
And sturdy soldier boots.
While you are chasing butterflies,
Amid the tangled grass,
Someone is testing chemicals
To make a deadlier gas.
And while you eat your simple fare,
Perhaps the war lords sit,
To start again the bugle notes
That only call the fit.
While I would build a splendid man
So fine and strong, my son,
Someone, in secret, tries to make
A farther-reaching gun —
A gun that on some distant day,
When drums of battle roll,
May leave me with a golden star
And iron in my soul.
— Author Unknown
If any of you who read this are on the “Wage Peace” bandwagon, please do not write to ask me to jump on board that wagon. War is a horrible thing, but I am not necessarily opposed to all military action. I do not know what to think about this war, I never have known what to think about this war, I don’t know if I have ever heard the truth about this war. I’ll wait and let my grandkids tell me what was really going on.