By Simran Bance.
On the barren plains you’ll see the feathers,
sinking into the sedge,
if only poppies could cover the graves,
dyed by the colour red,
and despite the blood the scent is sweet,
fading stains along the mountain,
but the cries of death, echo against
the tree’s throughout the land.
On the barren plains you’ll hear the songs
amidst the southern wind,
the tunes of tribes through wooden pipes,
sweeping the sandy skin,
and despite the ashes the air is fresh
whistling through the strands of grass
but the cries of war, echo against,
the mountains throughout the land.
So time is still in the land that was free
in the land of dreams, that fades away,
but the cries of children haunt Uncle Sam,
who saved the man, proud to be American.
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