We mourn the losses, praise the heroes well--
then loose, again, the beast that we control.
We know, of course, the beast was born in hell
but, gentled now, by good’s collective soul.
We tune the awkward monster, hone his sight
to humanize, recalibrate his aim.
But, though we seek to turn him to the right,
at heart, his beastly purpose is the same.
A child, alone, belonging to the earth,
no race, religion, nation understood
is in the path by accident of birth
and innocence won’t do him any good.
For, War, the beast we hone to render mild
cannot be trained to recognize a child.
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