One man follows another
With split necks each,
Death collects each soul
Yet does not leave.
He waits with patience;
There's one soul left, you see.
For the man, who yields the sword
All of a sudden, his movements stop.
A young hand now holds
The victors blade.
The sword presses into the nape
And draws the tyrants blood
Which falls to the ground
That's blackened and bloody.
So as the tyrant who once yold the sword
Now lets it go
He sees a little thing of green
Sprouting near his feet.
this little thing that had fought
to survive, upon this bloody land
haunted by war.
this sprout will grow
to build a meadow
then again build a field
for peace always wins over war.
He knows this now
'Just as the angelica that will
One day cover this land
So this jade eyed warrior too will be
This once great nation's
deliverer.
YOU ARE READING
UN SUNG
Poetry*And he looked upon these shackles With pain-filled eyes Yet he did not move a finger. As they led me to die. A story is a way to tell the tales of the past. A way to put into words the life of another. It has been the way of people to pass do...
