I saw my brother burn yesterday,
not my brother,
nor my father's,
but my grandfather's father.
I saw them set him high
on the Weeping Willow.
Willow cry,
Willow cry.
I saw my brother burn yesterday,
not my brother,
nor my father's
but my grandfather's.
I saw his blood trickle,
as the pickup absconded;
the dusty ground coated him
like his mother's kiss.
I saw my brother burn yesterday,
not my brother
but my father's.
I saw them take his heart,
the soil fuelled with his life,
nine rounds it took them,
I heard the shells.
I saw my brother burn yesterday.
I saw them set him alight,
like a lamb sacrificed,
I watched them drag him
to Our sacred land,
they hanged him
at my father's house.
I look to tomorrow.
I watch as my brother hangs your brother,
as his brother inflames the heart of another
and his brother still,
condones the shooting.
I stand and I watch
as the Weeping Willow cries.
A revamp of an old poem, by the same name. it says a lot to what is going on in the world,
I'm not sure why I've formatted it like this, it felt natural and not something I would ordinarily do. I just hope I won't think it's stupid come tomorrow morning.
Thank you for reading.
YOU ARE READING
The Burning
PoetryThe funny thing about fire is that it can be both destructive and cleansing, in the wake of the ashes is fertile soil. So I have set aflame underneath me and let the passion burn, in the end, I hope to find peace and build bigger and greater things.
