Saturday, June 28, 2014

A Hundred Years


By: Gus Victoria

The voices call out to me…
Soft on the hill they call,
Where they bled once
Now grow flowers,
The homes they knew,
Some stand still,
More were rubble long ago,
Their shades are the shadows cast
From that Great War
That ended naught,
The promise of youth
By Empire scythed,
The brotherhood of mankind
By generals silenced,
There was Hope in ‘14,
Only the Reaper
Four long years later.
There was innocence in ‘14,
Only cynicism
One century later.
The world poured in idyllic times
Was tempered at the forge of hell
Before, in blood bathed, it emerged,
Changed,
Unknown,
Broken.