Swings shift in subtle breeze, as
the playground falls victim to an
eerie pitch of silence.
Contorted bodies lay in heaps among
patches of weedy grass and dirt, as bullets
and blood feed thirsty soils beneath.
Faint echo of children�s laughter
intertwines with passing winds,
as I gaze upon what is now a war zone.
Beneath ashen skies I remember the sound
of little feet scampering in a competitive
game of freeze-tag,
the incessant chanting of someone and someone
sitting in a tree, all composed in
carefree tones of the innocence.
The future in the hands of the children
was never so true, and now . . .
A blood stained black-top with a fading outline
of a hopscotch chart finished in pastel
colours of chalk.
School bell rings right on schedule, and yet
I hear no feet scampering, I hear no carefree tones
only the squeal of a rusted merry-go-round spinning
in useless circles, as I step over the remains
of a young girl in pigtails and boldly take one
step toward grim tomorrows.
For the children.
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Copyright �2001 by Richard Charles. All rights reserved.