I am so little compared to the world
And it is like a haze passing by
I have no idea.

They tell me of everything
But am I listening?
I guess so:

Because I am reminded of the
War, constantly.
Of all those bodies out there,
Bodies I once could have smiled to.

If I can’t help, who can?
And if I don’t help,
My children will be out there.
Their only excuse is “Protect My Country”
I would pray for them.
They would not recognize me
After a long time of nothing but hurt.

I would cry so much,
I would swallow my heart whole.
And as soon as I spit it up,
My children would stomp on it
With their heavy, blood-stained boots-
The ones that walked over bodies like mine.
Who murdered bodies like mine.
And they wouldn’t recognize me or my dying body.

So they tell me of the war(s)
That we “can’t afford to end”.

But am I listening?
I guess so because I learned, now,
That I am supposed to be little.