Mothers toss
last remains of comfort,
nestled to their sons
nestled in the sun.
Some Reaper
brought them to sleep.
Somewhere in Hell,
the fire yells
the sounds for the knell,
as the funeral burns, to the
walks towards the sea.
As all masked faces
are singing for lifelessness,
in the emotionless
stances, to the stance of the patriot
warring to the war of caught soil
in their eyes.
As all mothers’ bear emptiness
in their uncovered arms.
As all hymns are broken in
the fading church,
water enters the heart of those
who fled, in the dread
of leaving in the grain.
Polluted, in the stain
of grief to the heartbeat.
Raining weaponry comes faster
than anything to the shells
of bent forms in the dirt.
Their faces, unmasked.
Their graces, unshielded.
Their tears roam as soldiers
carrying buckets for the fire
to wipe the stains
never clean.
Modern Romanticism 