by Sep 24, 2006Poetry

All along the ramparts,
Flags were flown of white.
In honor of the men
Who held steady through the night.

And as the crowd cheered
And the royal trumpets blew,
A spirit of kinship
The White City had anew.

Petals of The White Tree
Fell down upon the run
Where the stalwart soldiers
Rode under the sun.

And as the men were riding by,
One of them turned his head,
And on his face a forlorn
Expression spread.

His face was that of sorrow.
His face was that of pain.
I knew there was nothing left
To him still unmundane.

The men showed no excitement
At the crowd about them still.
Nothing worldly anymore
Would needs of theirs fulfill.

For so often was the case,
And so often will be:
Many must die inside
So many more are free.

A vision then I saw
Of a world true and pure
No fighting ever scarred
anybody to be sure.

The spirits were at rest,
The damned souls were free,
Everything in the world
Was in perfect harmony.


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