Next

Which way the future, where are we to go,
When all that here remains is left unclear?
When demogogues shout words I do not know
And say that I should hate and fight and fear?
"The torch that flew too high," they say, and we
Are asking if the payment's worth the price?
Is human blood, for all it's given free,
Too much a spacebound race's sacrifice?
And here, my child, not old enough to walk,
Knows nothing of new wars or ancient scars,
But looks in open wonderment, and gawks
Out from her window to the distant stars.
	For her sake, let my answer be to say,
	Were they to ask me, I would go today.

2/6/03