by Frank Balara

Created on: July 15, 2008   Last Updated: July 21, 2008

The smoke cleared from the battlefield.
There was nothing there but dead.
Try to find a reason,
Some sanity, just one shred.

Dreams of trees and flowers blooming,
Clouds painted on a blue summer sky,
They only remain in the mind.
Why did our reality have to die?

People screaming, children starving,
Crawling through the gutters.
Watching it all through blood-stained eyes,
With shock our bodies shudder.

Bush spoke of peace and freedom,
For a people too long in toil,
But in his heart and in ours too,
We knew it was all for oil,

For big fat greedy men with cigars,
With yellowed hands and teeth,
Who fuse their filthy green paper,
Together to form a wreath,

To place upon this battlefield -
A blood and gut dingy hearth,
That once we called our home with pride,
That place our gods called Earth.

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