I was at high school in the mid-80's when I wrote this short poem reflecting a level of anxiety about the threat of nuclear war...
Papa had many children.
He let his children play with fire.
They put fire in the sky,
And it singed his eyebrows off.Any family has it's fights;
His children fought often.
Some of them built powerful eggs.
When they hatched,
Papa saw the birth of a thousand suns.His children had gone.
He didn't weep.
They were bad children;
He was glad they had gone.
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