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
