109,903 poems read

The green leaves of spring would come
Each year when the sun returned and
The grass would grow and welcome
The sun as has happened for centuries
Then the armies came and tore branches
From the trees and fed the grass with blood
And gore and left leaving nature to grow again
Bruised but not defeated like the dead ones
Whose souls wait for revenge which
Is something spring leaves and grass don’t
Understand—they just grow over the bodies
Of the dead