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by Paul David Adkins
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(“A Villanelle for Dead Soldiers” mobile version)
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They did not give their lives for you, but they were taken.
You sound as though they held them in their palms
like change or keys, and offered them. You are mistaken.
You give your speeches, plant toy flags in the rain,
lay wreaths, and right them when they fall.
They did not give their lives for you, but they were taken.
Live soldiers march before the bands, and children wave
as if to Santa holding candy canes and rubber balls
like change or keys, to offer them. You were mistaken.
They take no issue if you shun their buddies’ graves
to grill hot dogs. But know, when you stroll the mall,
they did not give their lives, but they instead were taken.
At home, you lift your son to bed, careful not to waken
him. Others’ sons, who knows? They may be lost
like change or keys, unoffered. You were mistaken,
did not sense their lives like leaves were shaken
loose though green, to fall and brown against the sunlit garden walls.
They did not give their lives, but they were taken
like change or keys. Not offered. You were mistaken.
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