The earth is restless.
The smell of gunpowder is now in the air—
The brutality of war!
The song of the nightingale has stopped
in the blood-stained petals of jasmine.
Cries of loss from each house echo;
Funeral processions;
The dove of peace has vanished in the dust or mist—
The festival of scorched gunpowder!
Friendship and humanity are now burning,
The shelter's burning, too
in the flare of horror.
The earth is restless;
Each night takes us an inch closer to terror,
to horror, to death.
Each night is like a drop of poison
gulped down.
And yet we believe,
this earth will calm down soon.
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
