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Untitled
I'm mad with terror and distress.
With a sense of being in a world
where life does not exist.
Far away the guns do sound.
Smeared helmets hide their sunken eyes,
which have seen all too long
the here after.
I bleed inside for them.
With an excessive spurt of high spirits.
It was no prison and it was no disgrace.
But no one could live forever on the
bounty of the country.
The more we fall from grace,
the more we wonder...
with an air of speculation...
well-meaning but fruitless.
