With improvised backpacks
& flowers in their hair,
they were forging new beginnings,
building dreams for brighter futures.
Marching toward victory
under the sacred heavens,
they were snuffed out
through the end of a barrel,
the guns of the ruling class.
Ignorance & hate rule our days,
but surely wealth & power
cannot withstand the coming tides.
The hours will come when
the guerillas will seek truth,
a recompense
for the dense fog
that makes us blind
to their corruptions
& killings.
Some call it Armageddon,
others call it righteous justice.
I say karma.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
With improvised backpacks
& flowers in their hair,
they were forging new beginnings,
building dreams for brighter futures.
Marching toward victory
under the sacred heavens,
they were snuffed out
through the end of a barrel,
the guns of the ruling class.
Ignorance & hate rule our days,
but surely wealth & power
cannot withstand the coming tides.
The hours will come when
the guerillas will seek truth,
a recompense
for the dense fog
that makes us blind
to their corruptions
& killings.
Some call it Armageddon,
others call it righteous justice.
I say karma.
Request permission to use this poem