There is a silence now,
After that echoing thunder.
An absence of sound,
That flows like water,
From the highlands,
With a languorous abandon.
Across the fields,
Fresh tilled by that hellish rain,
Where the figures lay,
So tired that they sleep,
Dressed in blood among the stones,
Growing fat upon the morning light ~~
That steals along the blackened streets,
Mocking at the voices that,
In better times,
Rang through this place.
And where the children used to play,
Now the insects scurry,
Busy here beneath,
The houses empty gaze,
While within the empty rooms,
The ghost of love;
Chased by the wind,
Tends flowers on the windowsill,
That sway serenely in the wayward breezes.
Nodding gently in their grief.