Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
babatunde-adewalePoems
The battle field is here at rest, End of years of droughty pest After the seekers slaint With less seekers triumphant. What the hell do they seeked? After all, they waited never to see it Just a tears at their grave post, no feast. Worth their bravery remarked. A minute past, all forgotten But the scars stay behind the chin To tell foestuses the tale With their bloods, the land was astonished. No more bleeding of the wood, Weeping of the swords are exhausted Booming! Crushings, the machine dies in decorum Surrendering guns to their triggers Won't the foliages rejoice? Yes! Dancing in akimbo to breeze of peace. In all ruins of yester reds Has today emerge luminous greens. See! Phew! The tomorrow seeds Beckoning more barns for harvests. Battle field heaps for farming. Swords that slain verge to harvest. Hunting games not human; guns. War hurt spoken peace at last. The revolution thus triumph: Our valours are farmers, Soldiers for the green fresh leaves. St. Ylexinho It will end in total praise.
0
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
AFTER THE DROUGHT, REVOLUTION.
The battle field is here at rest, End of years of droughty pest After the seekers slaint With less seekers triumphant. What the hell do they seeked? After all, they waited never to see it Just a tears at their grave post, no feast. Worth their bravery remarked. A minute past, all forgotten But the scars stay behind the chin To tell foestuses the tale With their bloods, the land was astonished. No more bleeding of the wood, Weeping of the swords are exhausted Booming! Crushings, the machine dies in decorum Surrendering guns to their triggers Won't the foliages rejoice? Yes! Dancing in akimbo to breeze of peace. In all ruins of yester reds Has today emerge luminous greens. See! Phew! The tomorrow seeds Beckoning more barns for harvests. Battle field heaps for farming. Swords that slain verge to harvest. Hunting games not human; guns. War hurt spoken peace at last. The revolution thus triumph: Our valours are farmers, Soldiers for the green fresh leaves. St. Ylexinho It will end in total praise.
Written by
babatunde-adewale
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem