gentle rose
In fields where silence used to bellow,
Now thunder roams —
in marks of blood and turmoil.
The sky, once blue,
has turned iron-grey,
in remembrance of the soldiers
who once toiled.
Within these grounds,
the scars of conflict remain.
Trenches lie torn through the earth,
and the corpses of young boys
are still being uncovered.
Ghosts march in whispers
through morning fog,
and echoes cling to helmets and rusted armour-
Once worn by the victims of corruption.
Souls who fell as consequence to their naivety,
And by the ones who manipulated above,
To give reason to pain and death,
To make people think it was right…
And prideful…
Now, the wind hums through stark, bare trees,
remembering the lives lost-
for hollow glory.
No medals can repair
the young,
swallowed by wars and battles,
nor speeches from politicians-
who continue to this day to drown us in lies.
All we can do
is remember —
these scars of humanities everlasting cruelty,
cannot ever be fixed.