I saw a ship go out to sea:
It didn’t mean a thing to me.
I saw grapes wither on the vine:
What mattered it? They weren’t mine.
I read that children starved in Greece:
Not mine the fault; I’d lived in peace.
My brother, though, has gone to war:
I’m not indifferent anymore.
It’s none of ours, we’re positive,
Until it hits us where we live.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 17, 1943
