The fields are stained with red, not whine.
The fields cry loudly without harmony.
The air is filled with violence,
Painting the air in shades of blue and black.
Onwards they go, no turning back.
An odd bird, bedraggled by the passing bullets at speed.
Uncertain future awaits.
Blinded by the flashes of the fighting.
An encore,
And another.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
The fields are stained with red, not whine.
The fields cry loudly without harmony.
The air is filled with violence,
Painting the air in shades of blue and black.
Onwards they go, no turning back.
An odd bird, bedraggled by the passing bullets at speed.
Uncertain future awaits.
Blinded by the flashes of the fighting.
An encore,
And another.
(C) LIVVI
Request permission to use this poem