There’s broken blades beside the dead
Which farmers find in fallow fields
Memories of lives long past
Of those who died on the blades of grass.
Bones both broken and worn
Poke themselves from the ground
While horses tread upon these sticks
That once gave the dead their form.
Hands that once held other’s hands
Lay scattered around the fields of green
Nothing grows on the hands of time
As we pass from this fertile world.
©ronvdm777
Dec 2019
©ronvdm777
R