The sun sets and divides.
It leads to death or to eternity.
Ghosts call to the trenches.
With a trace, each step muddies us.
The mechanical eye looks at the world through the cross.
Spooky mushrooms sprout after the rain.
Bloody horizons subconsciously shout.
Ghosts, ghosts!
Yesterday the children played war.
The flower fields are bleeding.
Golden wheat fields are trampled at dawn.
Ghosts are calling to the trenches!
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Author:
falcon_mn (
Offline) - Published: June 9th, 2026 07:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
Powerful and haunting this poem reminds us of the cycle of war and its repercussions. Nicely written a fave
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