The Murderous Hand of Man

War I hate, though not men, flags nor race, But war itself with its ugly face. When we lose faith in the brave which die, Then we're not fit to greet those who cry. What distinguishes war isn't death, But that man is slain by fellow man. Crushed by cruelty and injustice, With his enemy's murderous hand. War tends to punish the punishers, So the losers won't suffer alone. The essence of war is but violence, Till the survivors come marching home.