BIZZARE

To beseech below
An angry sky
With fallen whispers
Rain clouds high
Above the field
The battle ended
Dead and wounded
Politics pretended.

To justify
The bodies slain
With twisted words
And whose to blame
As we dig the graves
People in a line
Covered by sheets
Blood stains to pine.

The ruins now
Seem to haunt
The soldiers minds
Deep piercing thought
Legalized by
Those afar
Blood on hands
It is bizarre.