The Battle.
The tired eyes of a young child,
For joys and rejoicing,
Is not the end of ways?
Call to the tribute,
For the victory is near,
And yet clouds of redemption,
Rain blood filled tears.
The voice of the mother,
Cradles her shredded, torn heart,
It screams out in struggles,
As the young child departs.
Never it be the days,
Of the bullet ridden land,
For the dead pile high,
And stains reddened sand.
C.
YOU ARE READING
Impressions
PoetryThoughts, feelings, ideas, the important and the not. They say you express yourself through art, through paint on canvass or a strum of your guitar. Your entire being, your soul, poured out to create a single piece of artwork that gives others jus...
