These mossy stones put on top of each other…a wall.
green plants sprout out of them like ears, do they hear
my whisper of compassion? Guarding small plots of
land no one tills anymore, where thieving sheep eat rare
flowers without a second thought.
One field is blood red of flowers that should end all wars.
They sell the plastic variety for you to put on your lapel
and show, you remember the nameless soldier who fell
on a grimy battle field with an unanswered question on
his bloody lips.
Old stones once you were children of the highest peak
But the peak disappeared into sand, tired of its colossal
weight. Look at you now, guardians of hidden beauty, you
can stop nothing as rain grinds you into pebbles and
dumb sheep continue grazing on rare flowers.
