Conflict

Even when bombs cease to devastate

The wounded moan in agony still

And the wandering orphan wanders

Through wailing winds of piercing chill

No weeping willows left to weep

An empty landscape, ruined lands

And from a grieving mother’s eyes, tears seep

At the sight of her child’s blood on her hands

The horizon is streaked, a canvas of red

But remembered are the shells that used to fall overhead

Remembered is the sea of blood of the dead

And a lone survivor shields his eyes and bows his head

Silence.

The dead children are no longer playing

Instead they were robbed of their childhood

Recognising the castaway bodies decaying

Whilst departing themselves amidst their own blood

Roars of shellfire, a deafening sound

Tracks littered with corpses on the ground

The nauseating scent of blood blown around

This is conflict I have found.