The Sowing

Written by: Joy Wellington

Upon the wind feasted hillside
The jagged edges of used rocks swell
With the fatless skin of babes and wenches 
Below a field of blood, no less a Flanders Field

A continuous swell of rape roll like waves
In the pallid squalor of leaking huts wooden tales tell
The scars ironed in the backs and inner thighs
The voices crying with no listening ear
Blood shines bright in moon's glow sons birth upon the fields

For eons it seems men stack rape like barley and wheat
Small ones soft ones and inexperienced virgins too
Daughters bled away dignity men their respect
Born work and ravished in the fields
Where is their medal of bravery

Today the summer sun washes over the fields
Each rays eclipses the dark memories of sin
As the sons and daughters rise

This poem was written for Joann Grisetti's Copycat contest through inspiration of Debbie Guzzi's The Sowing, one of the Greatest writers here on the Soup