The blood of sons and fathers
had once stained that cloud
that now hugged my mother.
Dad did his best to look proud.

Mom began her forward advance.
Her heart bounced seeing his tears
thought for her, but his mind in France 
smelling blood, their anguish sears.

He really did love my Mom.
Love anew his new parachute.
Her embrace his healing balm. 
Promising never again to shoot. 

What my parents did not know,
Blind surely I am too--
of our prison inside this show. 
Homage to the great Plato.

Why did he fight that war?
Why the ceremony for love?
We’re living stories, slaves to lore 
But not our own, we’re slaves to 
Our Culture’s cult.