What can be done,

What can be done,

To stem the flow

Of life draining away,

Whenever the door

To happiness

Is left open.

When death

Shoulders its way in,

Barging down feeble protest.

Swinging its blade,

Scything through hope.

Slicing through inches gained.

Harvesting,

Before the fall.

Walls crumble,

And even,

The tallest trees die.

New growth is flattened,

Dreams lie,

Shattered.

When hate grows

Desire is cheapened,

Turning away from love,

Embracing

Envy and lust,

Tears turned to rust.

The tears of newborns

Their innocent love,

Terrorised.

Torn,

From a mother’s breast.

Blood,

Seeps into the hardest ground.

And barren earth

Is made rich,

From sacrifice.

Every man dies,

But some are born to it.

We are sullied by their loss.

Their blood

Tarnishes

Our souls,

Even in victory.