by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’m sure night was made when man invented war so that darkness would put her arms around him, slowing him down so that he could think things over. And then at dawn start new again. I’m sure night was made when war came to this family, breath knocked out of the man, the woman and child languishing in the street. Darkness would give them a few moments of relief. I’m sure darkness was made when man invented war.
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