The Olive Tree Poem by Killian Brooks

Two fragile lives
Intertwine ware their frayed paths meet
Gazing at the stars above
Going through they're farewell races
Slowly, slowly, slowly
Falling down
To earth,
To die.
I remember theses things,
Of the fires,
Of the people I crushed in anguish
Fathers, mothers, daughters.
In wrath of the crimes of a few
Retched men.
Who's meaty fists and staves
Made a concrete angle
Out of you.
All gone.
Burnt to a crisp.
Who's eyes I dug out, with my own two hands.
And on your hill,
Grows an olive tree.