The smoke plumes have withered away

But at what cost?

A sword, is returned to its sheath

But the nights still teem with the lost

War is no game I’ve been told,

Yet that is the way it’s often sold,

Those who believe it may find a fate,

The price of winning is known too late

The world moves on its lurching way,

But many will never see that day.

War is heroic so many believe,

with death and destruction, there is no reprieve.

To kill one for something they don’t understand,

hate manufactured it gets out of hand.

© William Wright Jr., Richard Milne, A.M. Torres

Excerpt from the book Fire and Ice

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Foreword . . .

Many moons ago I realized the…