A voice in the Wilderness of War

One tiny bird, atop the blasted tree,

fluffed its downy golden breast,

opened its shining beak and sang 

a new song, from

its heart, over the dying.


Oppression, violence, vice, violation

of my land, killed chirruping chicks,

blasted my family while I flew afar.

These are my lyrics,

breaking me as they died.


They came in filthy smoking tanks,

despoiling, destroying, draining

the joy that lived here and cherished

every gift from God,

now ground from life to death.


I sing over the bodies of children,

their future ripped from their hands

by cowardly men dressed as heroes.

Their souls gone, can never be replaced

their hearts gone for aye.


Fluttering down to the ruined earth,

he saw that hope had been annihilated,

each ruinous act of hate deactivated

the spark of life

generated in love.


Still he opened his throstle, and chanted

his prayer, that despair will die and each

root of hopefulness will bring grace

and the shattered land

shelter life again. 

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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