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 our lives.

Kids are endlessly wexed
by their 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,
gulping line after line.

Pale sunlight streamed through the lattice of blinds
Secret language of shadows that lived 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 coats of arms,

Meaning of the word "orders,"
Maps of clever attacks,
Cloaked spies, secret murders,
Hidden trails and tracks.

Raging fires of ancient battles and wars
Held the fuel for our tireless brains
And our enemies we imagines in roles
Of spies, traitors, cowards, Judas, and Canes

In our dreams we were
always so clever and brave
Charming dames we would
always be able to save

As in beautiful songs
sang by old minstrels
In the roles of the heroes
we saw ourselves

But the age of dreams is always so short
Just around the corner are real wars to be fought
Try to look in thes face 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 there where you will find
before very long
If you are coward or hero,
feeble or strong

When your friend first time falls by your side,
And your heart shatters in the midst of a fight,
When you feel as if left without your skin
’Cause it should have been you, and not him