Children line the streets: pavements, walls, corners. Every
coverable space seems littered with small children waiting with no place to go,
bruised with confusion and scarred with panic. Like pieces of a sick game of
chess they are protected and hidden, kept away in case of future tragedy. The
surly faced train conductor has been tricked before; he had been told he was
fighting in the last war, the war to end all wars, the war to bring peace in
our time. And now, less than half a century later, the terror was back, the
false lies of glory had returned – only, he had indifference now. These weren’t
children anymore – they were reserves. They were the final push in case it was
needed. The arrogance and pride of adults dangled their childhood and innocence
in the water of battle, waiting for the first bite. They weren’t children
anymore. They were packages kept safe for a better day. Only no one would admit
that that day would never come. They were those coins kept for better days,
only to be used in a time of pain and sorrow.
They were used bullets; they just hadn’t been fired
yet.
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