This smoke swirls with its comforting hues of grey

It wafts away and disappears towards the stars

Making beguiling symbols on its way

If silence is golden, why do we cry?

History takes hold of me and tells me things

One mayhaps should not know

The hands craving for release still try

I must move or they will not be heard

Hiding in their graves the unwanted


But we the few will have learned

The preciousness of wanton blood spilled

A restitution of respiration

Go along with the tide

Still can’t unsee the faces of those I have slain