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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