father...brother....son

there is a cold echo of time in the photographs
the clustered figures in uniform with haunted eyes
they each had a gas mask and a gun
could have been alive this very moment
with such familiar features...a father....brother...son

a hundred years ago they began yet another war
another bloodletting for
a game of brinksmanship of the powers that be
thousands of young men littered on a field
died in a gas attack is the simple phrase beneath

you can almost feel the concussion of the shells landing
hear the wiz of the bullets as the past so near at hand
these young men gas masks in hand
looking into the cameras lens with such horror
things too terrible to speak of in their eyes
father....brother...son

a hundred years later
the papers are filled with pictures
of shells landing in the gaza
armed men clustered round a
jet airliners wreckage in the ukraine
children running from a burning village in africa
we have learned nothing
father....brother...son
i am sorry we have all failed you
failed to cease all this useless warring
all this bloodletting
father....brother....son