Beseeching the Heavens for Pity
The sighing winds carried off the moans,
the cries and the groans
of the dying soldiers,
as if beseeching the heavens for pity,
the battle took place in a war torn city,
the bodies ran too deep,
and children huddled up against the dead
trying to sleep,
it was either that or pray,
that the sun would go away,
because the sun was merciless,
drying up the water,
cooking the flesh of the dead,
staining the grounds red,
blazing in splendor,
it dried the tongues and throats
of soldiers too weak to crawl,
as fear coats,
and the soldiers choke,
from foul smoke,
coming from small fires smoldered
in the blood sodden grounds,
littered field with flutters of movement,
trembling of limbs, fluttering eyes,
life and death fighting for supremacy,
who lives, who dies...
© 2013 Frank Atanacio
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