I sing ballads
In the old City
In the burned down buildings
Amongst the corpses
In shame and in agony
I sing ballads
Of sorrow and pain
In it is written
A story untold
Of How Sorrow and pain
Wrecks my soul
I sing ballads
Of How hope failed
On a night so old
Of how she grew
White as silver
As war got closer
Over those mountains yonder
How she tucked her children
In beds as cold as
can be on December
How the jets screamed above
How the valley screamed in terror
And through it all
She sang her song
To her seven and eight years old
Sons and daughters
How the orphans huddled together
To listen to their mother sing
As usual
And through it all
How the doors flung open
And boots and flash lights
Flooded the open
How they tore her
From her children
And how she died in the backyard
A death so brutal
How the orphans were tied together
How their religion and race
Got them killed
In that night
In the cold of December
I sing ballads
Of old and new
As to Why there is cruelty
So true
I sing ballads
Of today and tomorrow
So people might know
The horrors
That war can follow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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