Blood is on the hands of men.

What justifies their dying?

They die for freedom, comfort, good

While women sit home crying.

Loneliness breeds bitter hate

To eat the strength within us.

God spares us now to live in faith

With rust-stained hands and jaundice.

Only time can heal the pain

Of war without and war within.

Respect the dark and then the light

To make the cure begin.

©Lynnette Schuepbach, 1967