Chicano Poet

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

from thegreatillusion
The Battlefield

They dropped like flies,
they dropped like stones,
like petals from a red, red rose.

A wind blows across the desert,
a wind which erases all the signs
that you ever lived.

They perished here, and here, and here.
And tomorrow they might write their names
on some stupid stone;

and the irony of it is
that in a few weeks
maybe not even God will remember their faces.


At 3:30 PM, Blogger Billy Jones said...

Striking work, RC. Absolutely striking.

At 12:32 AM, Blogger RC said...

Thanks,Billy.I wish it was unnecessary to write this kind
of poetry.


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