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C. Peter Odland

My son was whisked to the battlefront
Before I knew of the war.
They told me that the war had raged
For years, and will for more.

How could this be, I wondered,
"When will he return," I cried.
"None have returned from there," they said,
"And many of the young have died"!

"65 Roses," a mother choked,
"Has taken my child from me.
It's what the children call the war,
From which they want to be free."

"Why do they take them to the front
When they are so young?
Why don't they take the seasoned troops?
Whose battle hymns are sung."

Only the very young can go,
To fight this battle's front.
Others are not allowed up there,
In spite of what you want.

I'd willingly die in his place," I said
"Please... will they let me go?"
"It's not allowed," was answered,
"Not allowed by the foe."

"Who is this foe," I screamed!
"What can I do to fight?
Lets put a face upon the beast
And hound it day and night!"

Lets not turn this field of roses,
Into Flanders field.
Where poppies blowing and rows of crosses,
Was the final yield.

Yea! The people cheered!
"Let's defeat this dreadful foe.
Let's turn defeat to victory,
And watch our children grow!"

"Now then, sound the trumpet,"
With urgency I said.
"Let's slay this beast with a mighty charge,
Before my son is dead!"

To be continued after the war...