Poetry Collection

These colours don't run

The flag, the blood of a thousand souls bled into its cloth,
Seeping from its corners, the wind whipping it violently.

The battle won, the earth coughing puddles of blood,
The corpses blanket the field in poses of death.
Flowers wilted in the morning sun,
Fed by the veins of our fathers.

Pay back the souls of the murdered,
Bodies ravaged under the crescent moon.
Say a prayer for those lay forever still and silent,
For lying here, are men, brave and honourable in death.

Weeping tears of mourning, the rain washes down heavily,
The flag, ever standing for those lost so that we will never forget.