Dulling grey eyes scour the landscape slate
Charcoal skies
Tipped with dishonest
Silver linings
Our hero slowly dies
Slipping as
Uniforms dash past
Darts of scarlet
Scratch the hopeless land
And
Faint voices cut the silence
In vile desperation
Our hero
Sand
Merely a removable object
Soon to be forgotten
Soon to be replaced by summers opulence
Whilst I just sit and write?
The seemingly disjointed flow like thoughts and observations punctuated by guns, bombs and endless numbing carnage. Then the admission, a realization that all things pass and the futility will remain in the ensuing seasons change and rolling years. A journalist could have experienced this, very well portrayed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There's an essence of true humanity in these words; thoughts of how easy one can pass, and be passed by, so soon forgotten; My grandfather fought in W.W, I and my father in W.W.II, I wonder does anyone from that time, if still alive, ever even once recall their face or anything they may have said or done. GREAT poem, in my opinion!