ILL> A letter written during world war 2
Dear son,
I wish I had the power to write
The thoughts wedged in my heart tonight
As I sit watching this small star
And wondering were and how you are
You know, son, it’s a funny thing
How close a war can really bring
A father, who for years with pride,
Has kept emotions deep inside
I’m sorry, son, when you were small
I let reserve build up that wall;
I told you real men never cried,
And it was mom who always dried
Your tears and smoothed your hurts away
So that you son went back to play
But, son, deep down within my heart
I longed to have some little part
In drying that small tear-stained face
But we were men—men don’t embrace.
And suddenly I found my son
A full-grown man, with childhood done.
Tonight your far across the sea
Fighting a way for men like me
Well, somehow pride and what is right
Have changed places here tonight
I find my eyes won’t stay quite dry
And that men sometimes really cry
And if we stood here, face to face,
I’m sure, my son, we would embrace
Macartney’s Illustrations