The sky was crying and screaming war.
by Patrick O'Reilly
The bombs burst high and broke his heart,
So he turned and ran,
Through blemished French fields,
Cutting trenches in the tall grass,
Tripping over lonely corpses reaching for their homes,
Splashing through streams of mud and blood.
How many times did those feet miss the mines?
Though you reach the same end, they are all so far apart.
And when he had ran fast and far enough
He tore off his tunic and cast down his rifle.
And he sat under an oak tree
And he wept.