A hanging post; forty feet high,
The raging mob; they tore his hide,
The whipping rope; hung to dry,
The guillotine board; chop and fry.
The burnt body; a sooty mess,
A little girl; in a black dress,
Mountain tops; their sins confessed,
A broken home; the lost address.
Across the nation; a long war cry,
Broken swords; they start to fight,
Overturned cradle; the baby cries,
It is a good day to die.
......
This poem means a lot to me; it was just sprouting out of my mind, and I really did try to bring lots of different things in one: War.
So, again, like the rest of everything I write, I don't know how to feel about this.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
شِعرHIRAETH- (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. ...
