I go through the names at every visit, to give them back their name being spoken on the wind again, albeit in a language different from their mothers voices. After all this and all they did there are still some that can’t see past what the name means, the clue it gives of how they give thanks in their life for something they looked for out of it, the clue that a mother and father bestowed it as a blessing on a child they expected to outlive them.
The same people who use those very fallen ‘our boys’ as an excuse to never look outside the longitude and latitudes of their own lands to help, cannot comprehend that others did one time, before they were born, looked out from there, to help here and didn’t even get buried at home, but a small square has been given to them. Now, all that is there is the name, amongst running water and a sapling each standing to attention and watching, that can bend with the weather when they never could.
The one word they never use is irony, it is only short but very heavily loaded. It seems that for some the grave does not level us all, that a warrior grave that usually elevates should not be given to all, no matter how noble, selfless and honourable their sacrifice to protect other people’s families with no gain for them. Other people’s families who generations down, spew on stories that ‘This is England’ and say ‘Lest We Forget’ for a few days in November, but then do forget if the hero is not the right colour or religion to be gained entrance into their mawkish lip service. Maybe they should be made to wait and watch over those dead to see that after all, the bones are the same colour and fit together the same way and the heart is in the same hollow and the arsehole has all disappeared apart from the one regarding.
The casualties of war, are they those who die a noble death or those who 100 years later can still not let go of hate?
And you who worship your God of fire
Do you think he knows your deep desire
Is proud of the bile you spout
Your views uncovered spilling out
No you’re not racist but
There’s just a little part
That can’t keep the hate out
That ferments in your heart
And you do it in the name of your God
Where is it written that your DNA
Is the only one that is ok?
Who gave you a license to supremacy
When you bleed the same as me
You would you know
Let’s hope you never do know
Let’s just hope that you turn the pages of your book
To the verse and chapter that says take a look
At the person beside you mother or son
Same look in the eye and same moon and same sun
Same pain and loss and joy at birth
Same chance to do good on this earth
Same compassion that weeps and arms that can hold
To turn off the hate let the guns go cold
And here, like people who did their best
Attached your colours to their chest
Fought so you had freedom to state
I’m not racist, but,
What did they waste?