but what was true?

by '68
the hard bricks went flying
and revolution marched into the streets
where surprised people kept dying:
napalm tortured children's melting skin
burning the village doors
so they couldn't get in
for a breath of perfect perfumed air
and it didn't seem fair
that seemingly everywhere
the dogs of war were running
with abandon and totalitarian cunning
more hot bombs and artillery fell
poisoning the fresh water in the well,
the hands of each clock counting all the passing hours.
baskets of discarded flowers
floating on a swollen river,
fleeing the taker looking for a giver,
and a soldier running down the dangerous street
escaping piles of rotting dead without shoes and missing feet.
and each day awoke with a terrible worry:
broken shovels seemed tired of digging just to bury
bits of bone,
broken and all alone,
in shallow graves dug in a hurry.
and the news was seldom good by '72:
in black and white they proclaimed the old was now the new,
but what was true?
and who knew
if tomorrow the skies
would be covered in sweet smelling lies?