The raging war that tore the land apart,
Fields melted, no emotions to roar.
Sun did not wait to set,
Moon had no patience to rise.
July, not the month of heat.
The distant bells - the church's or the mourner's?
Not the rains, not like this cursed land,
But it was the land that pursed itself.
The villagers a distance glory,
Scattered batons, dreaded flies,
Dawn was not here to break,
Light too tepid here to make.
The Man, again, forgets his rule,
Goes against what he was told.
Family left, greetings bequeathed,
Wishes sacrificed, prayers unfulfilled.
It is a shoulder that we seek,
Let the tears wet the Armour ; Not the soil.
Armageddon is not fought on land,
But the Mind, it is.
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