I make my way through the snow,
of the way many went, but not yet come,
I made my way through that sticky snow,
upon which lies a sickly sight.
The bodies mangled, mauled, and dead,
it's a sight that mothers dread,
for when they know their child's dead.
they'll soon cry upon the heads,
the heads upon which mark the dead.
They're not to run in golden fields,
nor take joy in simple crafts,
will be upon hearts like shafts.
The sight of this scarred black land,
is one of which no child should know,
not the slopes slicked with blood,
nor the poppies splashed with red,
not the wheat stomped to bread,
this is field, of which no child should know,
and that's the sorrow on my soul.
Why don't your poems rhyme? Anyway I like how you spelled some stuff wrong show a daredevilness in your poetry
I agree. This was an incredible poem by the way. Amazing vocabulary. Even better immagry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you very much ^^. I decided not to rhyme in this poem in an attempt to slow the narrative pave and create a more somber atmosphere.