For who can whittle from many to one?
The results of daybreak and an endless plight
while youth lies wasting upon the young.
Then rise to kneel for your one-nationed tongue;
you preach mediocrity under fascist stars tonight
yet you smile as you consider your son
who lay down his hands and left undone,
your ideals and goals to blurry his sight.
Your youth is wasting upon this poor young.
And you, my grandfather holding firmly the gun
that you held once before next to my father's eye,
I pray you gather courage to whither and die.
This box holds the memory of ashes undone.
I will not shake, my thoughts to empty to cry.
Youth is wasting upon the young
where rose petals were left brittle and unsung.
