There was a little boy who wished to be a man,
one day he was sent a letter, he was asked to be a hero.
A saviour of souls, a guardian of freedom
on a mission from God, his friends were so proud.

Another one of those empty days,
that poor, crippled worker ant,
walking all alone in no-man’s land,
every hiss and quiet alerting his brain.
Rustling leaves, frozen mind,
conditioning screamed: “you won’t like what you’ll find.”

A rifle aimed directly at his chest,
a finger near the trigger, lingering there.
Foreign uniform, nervous stare.
No will to kill, Ares had long left.
The hero woke up from his trance,
he realised what was going on,
this was his only chance,
so he drew his gun.

He walked to the boy who always was
too kind and too human to ever be "a man",
the hero looked and saw a distorted looking glass
went through the pockets and found
a family photograph of five,
sitting on a couch with such broad smiles,
three words scribbled in Prussian blue:
“see you soon”.

He went through the stranger’s bag,
found a dutifully kept letter there.
Envelope was made of the cheapest kind.
He opened it up and then he read
a message from a recent bride:
“Make sure you do come home,
we’ll have twins in six months’ time,
I can’t raise them on my own.”

I met him one day, looking back at his past,
idling his life away, he looked at me and he asked:
"Who was I to end a life?
Who was I to desert a child?
Who was I to widow a wife?
Who was I to desert a child?"

What became of him?
No one knows.
Where’s that hero now?
No one cares.

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