Among weekend camfires and suburb trees,

Among Sunday prayers and family strife

We, the children of books, lived so care-free

Pining in the boredom of modern life.

Kids are endlessly wexed by our petty routines

So we fought ripping shirts and newly-bought jeans

But our moms mended up our clothes every time

While we drank our books, line after line.

Pale sunlight streamed through the lattice of blinds

Secret language of shadows that live in the past.

And the smell of the gunpowder tantalized our minds

Whiffing from the yellowed pages like dust.

In our books we could find

Fiery beats of the drums,

Shrieks of battlefield cries,

Flying coates of arms,

Meaning of the work "orders,"

Maps of clever attacks,

Cloacked spies, secret murders,

Hidden trails and tracks.

Raging fires of ancient battles and wars

Held the fuel for our hungry brains

And our first enemies we imagines in roles

Of spies, traitors, cowardsm, Judas, and Canes

In our dreams we were always clever and brave

Charming dames we were always able to save

As in beatiful songs sang by old ministrels

In the roles of the heros we saw ourselves

But the age of young dreams is always so short

Just around the corner are real wars to be fought

Try to look in the faces of your fallen friends

And to wrestle the weapons from their tired hands

Wrap your fingers around the handle, still warm,

It's no time to stop to think or to mourn

It is here where you will find before very long

If you are coward or hero, timid or strong