The leaves falling look burnt plummeting to the dry ground. The trees are calling to me in the wind; caveats of a gold and brown foliage weaving a blanket to hold autumn in. The people falling look tired tumbling to their final respite. To them the gunships are calling down; warning of a god-fouled battle that stuffs their children in the ground. The truth of these events, the summers scorched leaves and the cheerless weather of roaring guns, is that the moving images of surrender are an omen of a reckless storm. © 2010 by mark prime Proudly on Wikileaks' Side
(The Weaver's Song)