Forgotten
Crimson rivers flow in baron lands,
Whilst money grows in another's hands.
Like scenes seen in a sepia age,
Sandstorms rage; Rust, dust & beige.
The air riddled with whistles,
Not of joy, but of ballistic missiles.
The decay of today fades,
Lost among the decay of an age.
Lands will be re-trodden,
And these natives re-forgotten.
Modern arms now litter the paths,
Along with modern legs, lungs & hearts.
Was this scene foreseen in the forefathers’ eyes?
Because this scene has just seen four fathers die.
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