The Stench of Burning Bones

Why do we send our children out to fight old men's wars?

They look to us with an innocence and naivety that belies the shape of their bodies. We tell them stories of patriotism and righteousness. We pump them full of hate and fill their arms with weapons. We take them from their mother's homes and put them into uniforms telling them it is their duty to go out and kill, maim, hunt and hurt other children and are surprised when they can't stop the killing after they come home, or over react in the terror of a moment.

Where is their reserve? Where is the wisdom that allows them to keep things in perspective? They have barely had time to grow tall, let alone store away enough experience and sanity to withstand the rigors of an insane situation.

Let the old men go out and fight themselves. Let them stand one on one and prove themselves again and again. Let them take their own children and their own homes and their own arms and legs and voices and live out their old men's stories of valor unto the end. Let them throw themselves into the fires they sit beside as they goad the young into mismatched memories and long forgotten horrors.

The stench of burning bones should not come from the nursery. It belongs in the charnal houses. Let those who lit the fires tend them and free our children to be creatures of peace and light.