TEARS OF CHILD SOLDIERS

• Sarge Spaza, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2009

TEARS OF CHILD SOLDIERS


They sit in the bush,
The tundra and desert,
The thick jungles and rocky mountains,
But yet they are born in the slums.

They clutch their tiny hands
To the torn entanglement of robes
It’s the only warmth they know,
So they bitterly hold their firearms trying to earn a living.
The old guns, corroded and splitting
Never leave their grasp,
Pressed firmly against their bodies
A tear slowly weaves it way down the flank of the gun,
It drops
Slowly gliding onto piles of brass and lead
It sits glistening in the dawn sunlight
Showing their reflection,
It bites at them like starving wolves
They turn away in disgust
Noticing their tiny stained hands
It reminds them of the horrors they have committed
And as the sun rises in the sky
They return to their hellish life once more.


By Luke Spaulding.