Child Soldiers

We die far from home,
from family,
from the warmth
of a lost hug
or kiss from our parents.

We are alone,
conscious of the inevitable death;
we cry,
not in pain
but in sorrow,
in loneliness
and in despair.

We fight like soldiers,
like warriors for a cause
we and our families believe in,
but for many,
there is no family
They are all dead.

In our torn and bloodied
soldiers' uniforms and
Avtomat Kalashnikova in hand
We die like children.