Cannons; old and silent;
just as they should be,
pointed only at the sky,
for old folks memories.
Or pounded into plowshares,
as foretold in days of yore;
relics of a remedy
we don't use anymore.
The flashing of exploding shells,
the whistles and the thuds,
have all been replaced by fireworks;
the only tragedies being the duds.
Ah! If dreams were but reality,
and it were up to me?
There'd be no guns pointed at them,
and none pointed back at we!
Photo by Tina Weil Lampropoulos
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