I don’t want to hear the echoes
from the trenches of poets,
Covered at dawn by the mud fog
raining in snaps and hisses,
Under the dark sun plagued by the
moon’s silent scars.

I don’t want to see the signs
carved into the trees,
Burning through raised flags that
march with smoked winds,
Screaming loud colours above
reflective red rivers.

I don’t want to feel the pain
crushed into glass and blood,
Ripped from the sky and the sirens
calling and crying and howling,
Cracked along the lines of
advance and tracks.

Cover me when the night falls;
Cover me with the songs of old and new,
The night will not dance.

I want to sleep the dreams
of Spanish fields,
To learn the lament of
Byelorussian forest and marsh,
To live with the dark child who
cut his heart gripping a rifle.



So, what do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s