America, lend me your shoulder to cry on. Twenty-five-years-old and still don’t know why children have to die on the streets of another country, draped in your cloth. America, are we so proud as to ignore their cries, like echoes, nightmaring over dreams of freedom? I have seen boys younger than me who have completed their cycle in this world. They have uncovered the fountain of youth, never to grow old again. In their beds, they now rest, draped in your fabric. Draped in your arms. Covered by your earth.
Let the men and women in green join hands and praise their sacrafice:
O Captain! my Captain, our fearful trip is done
But Captain, their Captain sits on his appointed throne, flicks his wrists and sends them on another tour. Now watch Captain, their Captain don an uniform he so graciously passed up when it was his turn to serve. Now watch Captain, their Captain declare “Mission Accomplished” then take a bow. It’s all vaudeville, Captain, their Captain. Watch as he pulls the hat out of the hare. Watch how the players of the game become fat and green. Watch, America. Watch as the sea floods with what you think is oil, but is the blood of your forgotten and fallen children. Watch, America, watch as your torch-bearing lady sinks beneath the surface.