When wars begin, grandmothers chide the invaders,
As they enter the square.
But it’s tolerated,
When most expect to be home by Christmas.
The Theater contends with a specialized form of theater,
Generals assure,
Leaders assume,
The soldiers recite the lines as they are written.
A thousand heartbreaks bleed into a million.
Calamity compounds.
Glory recedes.
A million injustices spill onto the field.
As the pretense of honour fades,
The weary and worn,
Sit down to ring up the bill.
As the grandmothers bury the future.
By W. N. Branson 
