The coldest wars lead to the coldest hearts.
See there. The window shuts on the
future of hope.
Listen to the creaking as the door
swings closed on an essence of life.
Ah, the rage of the day is a trumpet
blaring loud and signalling an end to a
beginning. The shadows rise,
bullets in hand, wits striking out at
everything which moves...
And the children suffer most. Small
feet, tiptoeing around a quiet house,
afraid more death will enter and destroy
more innocence. The maternal body
just sits and stares, tears of blood
trickling down a long dead face of
weary affection.
The trumpets sound. The plight is more
than just another sound in the day. It is
a never ending stream of physical
propaganda.
©spilvenr
S