With my love with your sparrow of flight.

  Burn up ashes that cradle the night.

  I'm lost in turns, reaching above.

  But even the wedding bells chime as my soul soars as a dove.

  I walk in sequence away from the wind.

  The willow whispers," Time will begin,"

  With the drop of the heart, the palpitations linger upon the frozen guards.

  At war, at sea and land; will they ever cease to command?

  Trembling feet pound as a hammer strikes.

  Do they ever wonder what would happen if we didn't force boys and girls to fight?

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  A sacrifice of millions.

  We are still children.

  We hide that we are chatter boxes.

  We start to talk among our personalities in the heavy silence that follows in awkwardness.

  Public places are theaters for the imagination.

  We think of conversations we are too cowardly to present, because at the end of the day it is night.

  And when it is night, we cower under the covers, we strain ourselves to fetch water, and we still see mysterious creatures with the coat on the sofa, the stray light peeking through, and all of the voices that whisper through the cracks in the pavement.

  If you step on a crack, you break your mother's back.

  If you fire a gun that is backed by the inky black of a cloak, you will crack the oyster of another.

  We are still children.

  Keep marching. Think of a band.

  Trumpets, tubas, instruments of brass and metal.

  Think of the taste of metal as you blow the shot of celebration, of music into the same sky.

  Think of the push, the pressure of a button, a trigger that determines the correct notes, the correct timing.

  Think of uniforms stained red, one of fear and one of love.

  We shoot, we smell the metal, we taste the metal, our souls are stained with it.

  Are we still soldiers of war?

  Are we still comrades of death?

  Are we still musicians?

  Are we still monsters that cower under beds?

  Are we still children?