Stood at the lane's edge, amid the cobble stones.
A child with the beauty of innocence cried.
Hair closely cropped.
She wore a but dress of itchy handmade sack.
She wore no shoes on her feet.
A pitiful sight.
She was too sad for home.
She was not going back.
A tree stump beside her, urged her to sit.
She cried and cried and cried a bit more.
She'd seen soldiers turn up.
They ransacked the farm.

She ran like the wind, they must do her no harm.
The beautiful child clutched on to her charm.
Her charm an amulet, holding much magic.
The path of the planet moving to tragic.
She held it close to her chest, curled up in her arm.
For after the madness and after the rage.
She was the saviour.
The spirit of the age.
(C) LIVVI