They scatter me over the solemn ground. They wipe my death on the walls before my child’s eyes. My body is lifted from me and never returned. My eyes move to my child as the soil swallows my limbs. This, my death, pays no tribute, serves no purpose, only brings my child to hatred. Maybe that’s it- Teach children to kill, vengeance, one tormentor spent, sold for oil, this won’t wash away to befall something better. I descend with a last look at my child, eyes swathed in dread following me down, an ashen face and vacant eyes pleading as I pass beneath the surface observing the insipid reach of hatred. I know war only honors the things of beasts as I am grown in the ground like a seed for tomorrow. © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)