Flowers Plucked Too Soon
The canons have thrust their last fusillade
by H. Nelson Fitton
And the snapping sounds of rifles have abated
After dispatching their lethal messages.
Bodies, still strewn in their grotesque forms,
Profane the earth where once pristine fields
Flattered the eye to the far horizon.
Now a deathly silence falls heavy here
Upon a ghastly sight too often seen,
Repeated ceaselessly from ancient times.
In the silence of this numbing sight,
We can hear the pleading echoes across time:
Why? We were all of us flowers plucked too soon.