The swooping crows
lay their sadness.
And the dead bodies
of the youthful and the old.
Lie twisted and bent
in the early morning snow.
“He’s my son “
Says the mother.
As she picks up her frozen
child, dead to the world.
And the frontiers of
freedom, and life diminish.
The world watches,
and goes back to a
dazzling coma.
And the long nights of
hatred, begin again.
A Wandering Poet 