We had set out in a rain of flowers to seek the death of heroes. The war was our dream of greatness, power and glory. It was a man's work, a duel on the fields whose flowers would be stained with blood. There is no lovelier death in the world. . . Anything rather than stay at home, anything to make one with the rest.
You should stop and listen to yourselves sometimes. 'We're practically adults, let us run wild. ' 'We're only kids, leave us alone. '. . . You can't have it both ways.