The real trouble with war (modern war) is that it gives no one a

Host: The factory was silent at midnight. Rows of steel machines loomed like sleeping beasts, their shadows stretched long across the cold concrete floor. A single overhead lamp buzzed faintly, its light trembling on a dusty workbench where two figures sat — Jack, his hands stained with grease, and Jeeny, her hair tied back, eyes glimmering in the half-dark.

The city outside was a distant hum — sirens, the rattle of trains, the low throb of engines. But here, inside this abandoned shell of labor, only their voices, and the drip of water from a leaking pipe, filled the air.

On the wall behind them hung an old poster, torn at the edges: “War strengthens the nation.” Someone had drawn a cross over it, in black paint.

Jeeny: (softly reading from a crumpled book) “Ezra Pound said, ‘The real trouble with war is that it gives no one a chance to kill the right people.’”

(She closes the book, her gaze fixed on the flickering bulb.) “That line—it’s brutal, but honest. Don’t you think so, Jack?”

Jack: (leans back, arms crossed) “Honest, yeah. But it’s also hopeless. War doesn’t care about right or wrong people, Jeeny. It’s a machine that chews everyone. That’s the truth Pound was spitting out—no justice, no aim, just chaos disguised as patriotism.”

Host: A gust of wind howled through a broken window, scattering papers across the floor like white ghosts of old blueprints. Jeeny bent to pick one up, fingers trembling slightly, as if the very air carried the memory of all that was lost.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s something deeper in it. Pound wasn’t just condemning war—he was condemning us. Humanity. We build systems that send the wrong people to die and the wrong people to lead. That’s what he meant by ‘no one gets to kill the right people.’ It’s moral blindness, not just violence.”

Jack: (sharply) “Moral blindness? No, it’s greed. Power. You can dress it up however you want, but at the end of the day, every war starts with someone who wants more than their share. You think the soldiers in Iraq got to kill the right people? They didn’t even know who they were fighting half the time.”

Host: Jack’s voice echoed off the metal walls, low and hard. His eyes, grey as ash, flickered with something raw—anger, yes, but beneath it, pain.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s seen it up close.”

Jack: (a bitter laugh) “I’ve seen enough to know what’s real. My brother came back from Afghanistan in a box. They said it was a roadside bomb. But the truth is—he died protecting a politician’s speech about freedom.”

Host: The lamp buzzed louder, as if straining to hold the moment together. Jeeny’s eyes glistened; her voice softened.

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t know.”

Jack: “You don’t have to be sorry. Just don’t tell me war can ever be moral. There’s no ‘right people’ to kill, Jeeny. There’s just people—some caught in the wrong place, some wearing the wrong uniform.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? Pound was saying exactly that—the ‘right people’ are the ones who start it, who profit from it, who never bleed. They stay safe while the rest pay the price.”

Host: She spoke with quiet fury, her eyes bright, her hands trembling against the metal edge of the table. The lamplight shimmered on her skin, like firelight on water.

Jack: “You still believe justice can fix that?”

Jeeny: “I believe awareness can. That if we stop romanticizing war—stop calling it noble—then maybe fewer boys come home in boxes.”

Jack: “Idealism. That’s what it is. The world runs on cycles of violence because it works. Look at history: World War II—Hitler, Mussolini—someone had to stop them. You can’t write poetry to fix fascism.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “But poetry reminds us why we should. Pound himself saw that irony. He supported fascism once—then lived long enough to drown in the guilt of his own blindness. That quote is confession, Jack. He was saying, ‘Even when we think we’re right, war makes us wrong.’”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, almost sacred. A rat scurried through the debris, unseen but present, like guilt in a quiet church.

Jack: “You think peace is natural? It’s not. It’s an exception. Humanity’s default setting is violence. You know what Tolstoy said? ‘The strongest warriors are time and patience.’ But time and patience only exist for the ones not starving under the bombs.”

Jeeny: “And yet Tolstoy also said, ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ The truth is—we kill the wrong people because we don’t see them as people. That’s the disease of war. Dehumanization. Once you call someone ‘enemy,’ morality dissolves.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like smoke, curling around Jack’s tired posture. The rain began again outside, softly tapping against the rusted roof—a rhythm both mournful and forgiving.

Jack: (quietly now) “So what do you do when you’re in it, Jeeny? When it’s your life or theirs?”

Jeeny: “You survive—but you don’t let it define you. The real fight starts after the war, when you try to stay human again.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed on the bench, a small nervous beat, like the ticking of a bomb that had forgotten its purpose.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s seen it too.”

Jeeny: (a long pause) “My father. He fought in Vietnam. Came home a stranger. He said once, ‘The hardest part wasn’t killing. It was realizing who I didn’t get to save.’ That’s what war steals—your sense of who deserved to live.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. The air shifted, the tension thinning into something like sorrow. The lamplight wavered, then steadied again.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Pound meant, after all. That we’re never given the right targets—not because we can’t find them, but because the right targets aren’t out there. They’re in here.” (He taps his chest.) “Cowardice. Greed. Ignorance.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “Yes. The right people to kill aren’t people—they’re the evils we carry inside.”

Host: The machines around them stood like silent witnesses, their metal hearts dormant but their memory alive. The rain fell harder now, each drop echoing through the factory like small acts of absolution.

Jeeny: “If war ever ends, it won’t be because one side wins. It’ll be because we finally see everyone as the wrong person to kill.”

Jack: (half-smile) “That’s not how the world works.”

Jeeny: (gently) “No. But it’s how the soul survives it.”

Host: The lamp flickered, then went dark. Only the faint moonlight through the broken window remained, spilling over their faces in pale silver. Jack stood, hands in his pockets, looking at the poster on the wall.

He tore it down.

Jack: “Guess we’ll have to start building something else.”

Jeeny: “Something worth keeping alive.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The city lights shimmered, blurred by the wet glass of the world, reflecting the faces of two people who had finally seen the truth Pound buried in his line:

That in every war, there are no right people to kill—only right reasons to stop.