They are acting out the battles

That were fought many years hence.

They cry out loudly the rebel yell,

As they go to our defense.


They pick up sticks to use them

As gilded ruby swords,

They fire their pretend canons,

And hide behind a stack of boards.


They triumph over the enemy

With diligence and pride.

Thinking that they are immortal,

Forgetting those who died.


My little son and nephew

Were not untouched by war,

But they were so young at the time

That they remember little more


Than stories that I tell them

For of it Ashely does not speak.

I make them out to be heroes,

I don't tell them of the peak


When we fled a falling Atlanta

Or sitting, waiting for the news.

Terrified to find a name

Of someone we couldn't stand to lose.


With Southern hearts we fought,

Though I hoped for another way.

To bring peace back to our land.

To leave it to another day.


And now watching these children,

I thank my God above,

That these children do not remember,

And they only know my love.


They do not remember

When there was not enough to eat.

They don't remember all of the hardships

At the end of defeat.


But more than that I thank You,

That they never had to fight.

For they are only children,

And I want to hold them tight.


But I know of other boys,

That seemed as young as they,

Whose blood was spilled upon the field

On a far off battle day.


Of little Phil Meade dying

On the same day my son was born,

Of countless other mother's sons

Who never saw another morn.


I'm glad the war is behind us,

I only wish we had never fought,

I wish there was been another way

That freedom could have been bought.


But still these boys are yelling,

Re fighting a long lost fight.

Defeating a Yankee general

In this autumn dappled light.


And so I watch with quiet breath,

Knowing that they only play a game.

Knowing that we hold a grudging peace.

Knowing that we will never be the same.


Melanie Wilkes