The world was heading for a bloodbath on the most beautiful day in the world.
The coffins were being lined up in the stillness and brilliance of the sun.
The birds sang their eternal and usual symphony of song.
My love and I stood in the countryside, he with the sad and beautiful eyes,
and he confessed he loved me. Worry lines on both sides of his lips,
tiny rivulets beginning to flow through his hair though youth
still resided in him. The rivulets had flowed forth
when he was a infant.
Great wisdom
and sadness there.
I hid behind a tree trunk and laughed, and he peeked around to see me.
And that day, beautiful day, the world was heading for a bloodbath
in a tiny spot on a map which few knew of or could pronounce,
which schools failed to teach about in its' sterile, pale, patriotic doctrine.
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