Shape up, they say
Be a good boy, they say
Make your mummy proud, they say

So I sit down and I play:
I play Chopin;
I play Mozart;
I play Bach;
I play 'till my fingers bleed

Shape up, they say
It's time to grow up, they say
It's time to make your mum proud, they say

So I throw away my boyhood:
Good friends of mine are stored away,
In an old wooden box,
In the attic,
Where they are never touched by the light of day
Childish dreams,
And friendships I made,
Are gone in the sun's morning rays

Shape up, they say
Be a man, they say
Enrol, they say,
And make your mother proud

But they are not the ones fighting;
They are not the ones on the battlefield
Avoiding bullets
And watching as their friends and teammates
Perish by their sides—
They do not hear the pitiful cries of the children
The birds,
Who sing so sorrowfully
The wind,
Which whistles of much better times
And the eyes of those,
Who have seen too much

Good job, they say
You are a real man, they say
We are proud, they say

But they do not remember the hollow eyes,
Of those who have nothing to live for anymore
They do not remember the empty voices,
Of those with no place to go
They do not remember the feverent cries,
Of those whose hearts have broken
Beyond repair

Sometimes, I think:
I think of my music;
Of my friends, locked away in an old wooden box;
Of the friendships I killed;
The dreams I quashed;
The bullets I dodged;
Those I knew who died;
The sorrowful birds;
The hopeful wind;
The ones who have seen too much
The hollow eyes; the empty voices; the feverent cries;
The sounds of a heart,
Breaking in two

Sometimes, I think:
It just wasn't worth it