Where now does the black rose sleep?
The rains that fell before, bleed harder.
On grass that does not weep.
The lightening’s strike bears no sound.
Yet bursts afresh the stony ground.
Where hence do the voices go?
Their melody dancing, around trees flits.
Downwards on with the rivers flow.
Concealed within the morning mists.
I kneel with hands raised in fists.
Where then did the crows’ murder fly?
Leaving bones as their scar, laid fields bare.
And as vultures retook the sky.
Sea’s advance wrecks the iron ship with rust.
It’s foundations break, crumbling our chains to dust.
Copyright © The Red Rain