If you read war poetry (or war fiction, or war essays) you rarely find abstraction. The words ‘freedom’ or ‘commies’ don't appear unless it’s in a quote by a politician.

A conversation with a bunkmate, the cool skin of a dead body, the smell of shit, the sound of artillery, and blood. Those appear. There’s the taste of mom’s fried chicken, the scent of a girl’s perfume. Those also appear. The things we find ourselves fighting for. And sometimes we find ourselves thinking about them while holding our hands canted, arms parallel with the ground and fingertips touching the edge of our eyebrows, rendering honors to a cause greater than our politics and ourselves.

Protesters are doing the same thing when they place their bodies in harm’s way for the idea that their children should be able to live without fear of being shot for the color of their skin.

http://www.dagray.net/blog