widows might.. oh, they might..

    if i was crying.. it was for freedom....from myself and from the land, i've made a lot of mistakes..widows might.. oh, they might..   I can feel the bruise of the buckling-kneed boys,lifting themselves from the rubbleas they tear free from the splintered wood,as they push and pull through their memoriesof shattered photographs,as they bless their Father for sparing their lives,I can feel their hearts wrenching. I am a part of the fatherless boy        who has become the man overnight.I am the sinews and threads of the lonely widow.I break my back under the heavy stress        of dual roles, dual jobs, dual lives. I raise my hands up to the Lord who spared me,I lay my head upon the cotton and flannel alone. I sense the dread of the widow,awaiting the hum and buzz of the commanding officer's car.I am the soldier who does not return        to his homeland, but fights eternally.I am the mother who lies on cotton and flannel alone.