There’s an empty chair so lonely and an empty space in bed,
Each one for sons and daughters, whose fathers once were bled,
On battlefields in futile wars for men who never learn,
Those politicians, bankers too, have many bucks to earn.
I miss the unborn children, who by right should share our fate,
Betrayed by callous old men whose gold will never wait?
If any question why they died, it was because their leaders lied,
And unborn sons ne’er kiss a bride whose lives were squandered too.
I mourn their never passing, I mourn they never were,
I mourn that we do nothing, when lies are brought to bear,
On those of us who live today, whose parents made it through,
But what of many others, the ones we never knew.
When men shall die in futile war, their unborn children too,
Will lose their lives and those who live though many are too few.
I curse the lies, how I despise the moneychangers’ table,
When those unborn, unknown to us are nothing more than fable.
R.I.P
Michael (Walsh) 13.08.13
quite_write@yahoo.co.uk