Camouflaged toys

The tracks of the tires are the only trenches
that are left in the paths where soldiers march;
as children once dreamt of green and back camouflaged toys,
now they wear it, as dirt, thick brown and gray vests.

Mantles of plastic and steel
shroud from bullets a body of fear
which knows not how to it doom will come
nor whose trigger will fall from.

Pointing and firing, silent commands from a screen
leveling a building with just one button pressed.
What do we see as bodycount, when we left little to see?
What do we see as a foe, when a friend wears the same clothes?

Traces of golden cases,
the shed skin of his bullets,
chunks of grenades that roar
shredding the humanity abroad.

Stolen youth lives to wage a war they try to understand,
risking their lives in streets that aren't their own,
stealing the life of those who blend in the crowd in disguise,
risking their mind trying to find a reason to fight.

No enemies for a simple sight,
yet bullets and blasts take lives;
what good and peace does it bring to those who die?
what peace and sanity for who comes back alive?