In burlap did he laugh,
the huskiness of mirth
to occupy the dearth
of sound. A photograph
beside the paragraph;
her testament of worth.
In satin does she weep,
cold buttons in her lap.
The invocations tap
an estuary deep.
Like flutterings in sleep
they flood the aching gap.
She penned his epitaph:
In Burlap Did He Laugh.
3/26/18
Cruel times, cruel hearts of fighters
Going to death under the orders of the fathers,
For the blood that binds them,
Both the brothers who fell and friends still alive,
Brutal century, cruel eyes of the war,
Staring with soulless of Satan on the human world,
Yeah heard journalists huskiness news,
Yes does not relieve the anxiety of the soldiers' mothers,
Who are waiting for years for news of the children.
Is it possible the war to stop?
All sufferers to give a lot?
Blow out bonfires, bridges to restore?
But the smell of the blood strong for the sharks,
Give no rest, so sweet it is.
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