And As Bullets Fly
On this land sun often shines, in afternoons there
is between, deep shadows and light a multi, hued,
enchanting greenness it is as day and night seek
ownership of the earth. On dull days nature loses
its colour and there is no strife between light and
dark, only gloom, if that is a colour. I drive home in
a tunnel of grief moving through doom, and blue
news, I have just heard of a shooting in a school in
USA, 30 people dead. This cursed second revision.
On the front window, tears from parents who have
lost their children. I whisper, when will it ever stop?
As I lament my old age, I feel useless, after all I have
lived through the seasons of years; the youngsters
murdered shall never grew to get old.