Constantly, constantly coming to me; the men.
I am unable to bear their stories of woe,
their voices extra-ordinarily high pitched in tone
whisper, not more than a gargle, rumble or groan.
I am unable to bear their stories of woe,
their voices extra-ordinarily high pitched in tone
whisper, not more than a gargle, rumble or groan.
Where do they come from, how do they come
and call my name; who is behind this terrible
frustrating gaggle of men, ducks at a party
being shot by their keeper, their lord?
What of this tale – life is rotten, riddled by a disease.
No way of rescuing this plight, the damage pervasive,
endless crime.
God in Her glory sang out no more war and victory
as man does declare,
She in her haven cradles a cripple, a wounded soldier
who lives no more, but strafed by fear
for what he has had to bear, says no man again
should have to experience the same.
No more violence no more war,
Man is dying.
Life on our planet is rich no more.
November 17th, 2013
Tags: Songs of Sorrow
