Battalions are being moved to the border,
With squadrons of tanks, by martial decree,
Pilots are scrambled, navy’s all at sea,
Young lives determined by the next order.
This is the fault of the other side, of course,
For having the wrong language, flag or friends.
Whichever one attacks, which one defends,
Both will count the dead and share remorse.
How long before there’s common agreement
That the dead are not glorious, just dead?
As long as there are leaders and the misled,
Profit remains decisive of intent.
While capital is allowed to rule, then
There will be war again and again…