Poetry

Tonight, in the sky's dark canvas,
is the moon, full of all our blood.
I believe the enemy has overran us,
and our fathers shot dead in the mud.
Chaos, confusion. What shall we do?
Run away from the fear they wield,
into the night without a clue, 
that we'll be ambushed in the field.
Surrounded by imposters, 
unarmed and under fright,
we are beaten and whipped by monsters, 
throughout the cold and blood red night.
We're taken prisoner and shamed,
tortured and disgraced.
Flogged by an enemy untamed, 
their anger burning, yet misplaced.
But human fury often makes, 
the mind come all unwound.
And so they mad a big mistake: 
They left us all unbound.
Up we jump to attack,
bare fisted but terror driven.
Looking up, the sky turns black, 
awaiting our decision.
Do we try to fight or run? 
Wave the white flag and surrender? 
Try to forget the evil they've done?
Or live in fear and remember? 
We never made that final leap, 
the questions are left to ponder.
Eternally, our bodies may sleep, 
but our souls are gypsy wanderers.