Foggy morning dew weighs heavy
On regimental rows of blood-stained grass,
So many fallen blades sacrificed
Under shoes of violent acts.
Guns giving violence a voice
That need not shout so loud,
Less guns less deadly choices,
Yet,
Bullets keep shattering villages,
Indiscriminately mowing down the crowd.
Bloody footprints walk to heaven
As we totter in our morass,
Trails of red-tinged dew remain,
Till the next cutting of the grass