When the sky bleeds a dark red
that stains the fresh green Earth
and when even the rains can't take
take away the seeping blood
that now forms a river in the
heart of a country,
a poet weeps and takes out
a pen.
From the barrel of the gun
you shoot hatred packed in bullets.
The crushed skull of a nineteen year old.
You now know how deep a man bleeds,
and how deep the sorrow is,
of a country dying,
crumbling like it's made of dust.
The rotting corpses have flowers growing out of their mouths,
the damaged gun now dead
writes lines of anguish.
"War killed us all."
The dying soldier cannot picture
his mother's face.
A lover awaits.
Poetry dies slowly in their lips.
Only bullets remain. 

.    .    .