I wrote the following poem in 1981, 35 years ago, and in reading it I realized nothing has changed in all those years or even in the last 500 or 1,000 years. Man always seems to find a way to make war, and the primary victims of war are children … children! Those in power seem not to care about them. When our own government made war on our Native Americans, too many children were simply shot down as though they were nothing more important than rabbits. Recently we’ve seen the horrific suffering of children in Syria … unforgivable abuse and annihilation. It blows my mind what some men can do to children without concern. As you can see from this thirty-five year old poem, nothing has changed. The sad part is, it probably never will.

War’s Children

I saw a little boy one day …

His clothes were torn and dirty gray.

His feet were bare and looked so cold.

An old, broken toy his hands did hold.

His many tears had made long streaks

Of salty pathways down his cheeks.

A look of fear shown on his face,

Where laughter should be … there was no trace.

His little body looked hungry and sore.

On neglected wounds, ragged gauze he wore.

He was lost and alone, nowhere to go,

His little face had lost its glow.

He had no family, no next of kin.

They’d all been killed, except for him.

He sat alone, so very confused.

No one had claimed him, hospitals refused.

I wonder if he’s still alone,

That little boy just barely grown.

Somewhere tonight a child will roam,

No food, no clothes, no love, no home.

How many others are there like him?

Small ones who suffer from our sin!

War has its price for everyone …

But not so costly as for the young!