He caught only a glimpse of the monument. You know how it is, traveling as a tourist by bus. If you sit on the right side, whatever you need to see is on the left. About the time the guide mentions something important, the light changes and you zoom off.

But Anand managed a quick look at the monument through an opening in the trees. Known as Le Monument aux morts de Strasbourg, the sculpture by Léon-Ernst Drivier, erected in 1936, sits in the center of Strasbourg’s Place de la République. Our guide mentioned it so quickly, some people missed it.

As we rolled along, the guide added that it was modeled on The Pieta, but in an unusual form. The mother holds the body of not one son, but two: one representing a French soldier and the other a German.

Strasbourg’s geopolitical history is dizzying. This cultured city in a region known as Alsace has bounced so often between the French and the Germans, it’s hard to keep up. Plus, just because the Rhine serves as a stable border today between part of France and Germany, borders are never carved in stone.

All the more poignant, therefore, is the portrayal of the sculpted mother grieving over her sons. Think how often this tragedy has occurred, not just in the wars we call World War I, World War II, or the Franco-Prussian War, and not just here, on the Rhine.

The tour of Strasbourg came towards the end of our voyage down the Rhine. Booked as a “family cruise,” this journey brought together multiple generations. Among the 120 guests on the beautiful Amadeus Silver III were 29 kids! The youngest was about seven, while the older kids were experiencing the trip as glorious gifts upon their high-school graduations.

In the course of such a trip, you do get to know the guests rather well. Anand’s family was delightful. His grandparents exuded such joy, plus they kept us in stitches. Anand’s mom beamed with joy at having her two sons and her parents together, making lifetime memories.

Anand’s younger brother, about 12 years old, was the talkative one, spending his free time playing chess and games of strategy with a group of boys his age. He was clearly one of the leaders.

And Anand? He was the quiet one, the observer. Sixteen years old and a football player, he struck me as a gentle giant. His visible deference to his mom and grandparents, indeed all of the adults on the tour, was endearing.

To my surprise he came to my lectures and our discussion groups. He even offered a few comments. But other than that, he was like many teens his age: hard to read.

The evening after Strasbourg he told me about the poem. He wanted to know if I’d like to see it. Of course I did. He handed me his phone. (Is everything on a phone these days?)

I had to glance quickly at it, because we were due at an event. My eyes widened. “You wrote this after glimpsing the monument?” “Yes,” he said quietly. I asked him if he would send it to me, and he said yes.

We bumped into each other at the Amsterdam airport after leaving the ship, and I reminded him. “OK,” he said, with a smile. I added, “If you do, may I share it with people?” He seemed surprised. “I’ll be sharing it with good people,” I assured him. “People who care about history and the arts. And who care about kids.”

The next day he sent it. He asked only that I put his name on it.

Think of all the kids who, if exposed to the arts, would choose to express themselves in poetry, music, dance, painting, or drama! Don’t tell me that they are “electives.” Don’t even breathe the idea that they are frills or unimportant. Arts like music and poetry have the power to open a young person’s heart, soul, and mind. They are not artificial add-ons. They are expressions of our deepest reflections, ideas, and ideals, no matter what our age.

Here is Anand Ambrosi’s poem (as yet untitled):

All I want are my two little boys back
As I scream, I shout, and I cry.
How could you, how could you weep over them,
When you sent them off to die?

You called on them from your ivory tower.
Sat upon a throne of bones.
The blood of your people surrounds you,
But all you see is the other side’s throne

So you shout and you scream to take their land
As your throne grows with the bones of the dead.
Still you can’t see the cost of this great war
Because the blood hasn’t come to your bed.
I held my two boys’ cold and limp hands.
One fought for France the other for Deutschland.
But underneath they still bleed the same red.

I loved them, I loved them, I loved them.
All you thought of was winning the war
At the cost of my children’s precious lives.
You sent the devil to knock on my door.

All I want are my two little boys back,
As I scream, I shout, and I cry.
How could you, how could you weep over them,
When you sent them off to die?

A war will ne’er solve anything,
When two brothers fight for the other to die.
This, the great folly of war, can’t you see?
When one problem is solved,
In return you get three!
So, consider that war costs more than money
‘Cause you’ve left two holes in my heart.
And it hurts, it hurts, it hurts can’t you see?

To you they were just a pawn piece
I loved them, I loved them, I loved them
I miss their sparkling eyes.
Lives cut too short by needless war.
Gone before I could say goodbye

All I want are my two little boys back
As I scream, I shout, and I cry
How could you, how could you weep over them,
When you sent them off to die?