War slays the beautiful people,
The ones you see in a photo —
and can only sigh in wonder:
“Perfection exists in this world…”

War slays the young and the tender —
The ones with delicate features,
Whose hair is cast to the breezes,
Whose gaze is lifted to the sky.

War slays the strong and the mighty,
The ones whose muscles flow
Like streams beneath the skin,
The ones radiant with light…

War slays everyone alike:
The crooked, the awkward, the sightless,
The ones rarely noticed,
The unloved, the unwanted, the wretched,

The ones not meant for the picture,
Who reduced to numbers in data,
The ones you would never look twice,
The ones you would never remember.

And so no one remembers,
Even when silence descends.
But photos remain of the others,
Of those who were truly magnificent.

To stir a deep sigh of wonder:
“Perfection exists in this world…”
For no one would dare forgive
The pitiless cold-blooded murder
Of the young, the strong, and the beautiful.