Red Clouds
Rusted plow upon the field
Farmer’s furrows, all are healed
Scars upon the sod.
Nothing planted there but dreams,
Buried, watered not by streams,
Nor by tears of God.
Fields and fathers, all asleep:
Sons have other crops to keep
Kept by force of arms.
Cindering the foreign skies
Billowing white clouds to rise
Poisoning strange farms.
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2009
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