Dear Children of War

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Children of War,

You were born in an age when 

magic manifested as bombs. Countries, 

kingdoms, and other divided lines

were remeasured, thickened

based on who could make

atoms explode in

the biggest


As Children of Peace,

with our blood shed only for 

your greed—with our emotions ripped 

between your war-day, cold-war stories 

and the magnificent knowledge of the Internet

and books—we felt saddened you abandoned

the beauty philosophers once saw 

in the universe, as they studied

how the universe is 

within us.


So we reasoned for a better world

with cleaner energy

and inclusive


and you questioned,

privileged and hateful, dreams

we offered at your feet, condemning

our brighter future with your

fear-stricken belief

in atomic science

devoid of magic.


I never understood why science

and religion were opposing forces;

couldn't we maintain different branches,

boughs of a magnificent  tree of thought

in their independent clusters of blossoms, leaves,

while respecting the obvious truth of our evolution

from the same seed, the same kernel curiosity

of wondering who we are?

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