by Carol Smith

My husband went to war when
“Thanks for serving” was not said
In those days “draft” not “volunteer”
Filled up the ranks instead

Then “hero” was the farthest thing
From these young soldier’s ears
Though for the many lives cut short
We cried no different tears

And all the while the TV played
In place of Bach or Brahms
The war’s most deadly rhapsody
Composed by falling bombs

Although from Nam he would return
War made quite sure that first
The innocence of youth was used
In vain to quench its thirst