men are meant to break, and so we break them, a practice crossing time, and place, and caste; men are meant to die, and so we kill them, they're built for moments, violence, not to last boys are born destructive, angry, reckless, and this we can exploit, increasing yields -- men are meant to break, and so we break them, on streets, in jails, at jobs, on battlefields
(Inspired by “The Battle of Blenheim“, by Robert Southey. – Owen)
So many lives cut short for causes
No one can recall –
So many, rallied to the trumpets,
Gone beneath the pall –
So many, barely risen, when
It came their time to fall –
But men die in their seasons;
And wars do not need reasons
But many spend their mortal days
In pastimes much more meek –
Pursuing beauty as they can,
Engaging in technique –
In pottery or carpentry
Or making silk batik –
For beauty born in season
Is its own kind of reason;
And far beyond war’s measure
Is just one moment’s
Pleasure
