The field has the look of an abattoir
an ancient one you may likely say
with rivers of blood here and there
and pieces of flesh like a lion was here
as we waved through the red grasses
we wondered in disgust and sadness
why so many signs of death at a time
and the cries we pretend we do not hear
of people like us living a stone throw
we are the tribe always on the run
the very meaning of wickedness
we live everyday running from
the memories that often threatens us
our out-of-date hatred for our own kind
this is the same field we once loved
where the children played in the moonlight
in the same place we once tried to share
at the center of the world we knew