The War.

The Part of Weapons.

Oh- run, run, from the burning sun!

Feel the light on your back,

Bristling, falling like water...

Over the infested seas.

 

Run, run – run for shelter,

The sun is rising; it might well burn your eyes!

Some feel the moon light,

Soothing the wounds of the sun's light,

Over ages of laughing,

At all mans' brave mistakes!

 

The angels came from the loose ground,

Clutching in their hands dirty brown,

Flying over my head, screaming,

Flying around in their golden gowns,

Beaming...

 

I waved goodbye, and

They slid their way into my mind!

 

Through the wafers of the living

And the distance of the deaf

The kingdoms of broken verses

And the leaflets of the bereft

The foot soldiers trample slowly

And the generals follow suit

In armoured cars with a machine guns

And cigarettes burning where their minds begun!

 

Travel long. Travel hard!

Travel- travel- travel

Where the Bombs have fallen

To the lands of loosed gravel

Where the rivers turned still

And silence is a nail screech

Travel towards the blooming poppies,

Into valleys of the bomb breach.

 

Part of understanding.

 

Berlin, where are your men

And Himmler- is the sky green?

Who gassed the masses?

Was it the guilty brasses?

What lies you ensured,

To de-corrupt the men ununiformed.

 

Summon your men to the magic mountain,

And ask them to kneel

Is it the fathers they fear?

Or the touch of their mothers heal?

 

Are there no flags too high?

Or submarines too deep?

To be hidden from plain sight

Unlike the secrets you asked smoke to keep.

 

Will all be revealed?

Like some magic trick

In an amateur magician's chamber,

Where the milk maid is the queen

And the lovers, into the rooms lean

No sleight of hand, or moonlight sonatas

To teach treachery's lessons,

Will all be reaveled?

 

A little longer

A little while longer...

 

 

The Part of Fear

 

Someone whispered in fright,

Of the truths that gossip bring,

The Russians! The Russians!

All pray the power of red!

Tanks with stars and planes with stripes,

Referred to the senders of might,

Creepy feelings, with musty ceilings,

The end begets the peace pipes.

 

Shanti – shanti – shanti –

The last words of poets' great,

The chants of an uncanny peace,

Pieces of hope that cease,

As the levels are grounded

For the walled lease, surrounded

Founded on victories

Pyrrhic and majestic.