I see a child running away,
And I also see the men chasing him.
He turns behinds and continues to pray,
That maybe, they might leave him today.
He runs and runs, until he stumbles,
The men behind grin and leer.
He saw them and all his hope crumbles,
And prepares for the next troubles.
They surround him as he prays,
And raise their guns to his head.
He turns his head to look away,
A gunshot, and his blood sprays.
Afar I watch, I lean in,
I close on him, feel his skin.
I reach my hand to his soul within,
And they think it is their win.
I carry him, high above,
And watch him see his mortal shackles below.
I take him to the heavens far off,
A place where he'll finally find love.
The boy I speak of is a victim of war,
Everyday I carry such souls above.
Please, stop, I'm tired now,
Please live without war.
I'm tired now....
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
