Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

The dead stags fawn, the hunter’s son won’t see,
Nor will the logger’s son glimpse a cedar tree.
And all the scenes my granddad saw have gone
And my grandson will never set eyes on one.
My son will not taste sweet water from the stream;
He’ll never walk the trails where his dad has been.
He’ll never know what freedom really means
And try to visualize such things in dreams.
For freedom is not why we fight our wars;
It was lost before we knew what it was for.
Before they came invading our quiet’s shores
With cultures backed by righteous swords
To slaughter all who barred their way,
Hiding behind their God who had all the say.

~ 2 ~

Those they butchered, poisoned, and shot,
Oh they were just an inhuman lot.
They did not strip the Earth of wealth
Nor bring disease to destroy one’s health.
They turned not the grasses into dust
Nor left their iron behind to rust.
They polluted not the sea and stream,
Pursued not the selfish greedy dream;
They did not poison the air they breathed,
They knew when to stay and when to leave.
They died defending what they could see,
Swept by the wind, and truly free.
That those who claimed it will never know
Because their righteous God, to Adam, said, “No!!”