The Cry Remains
E
Ernestine Northover
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The cries of the world travel down through the ages,
Echoing out into the vastness of time.
History repeating itself on life’s pages,
Continuous circles, that twistingly climb.
The cries of the world call forever to be heard,
By each generation who’ll regard them not.
Every so often, moral senses are stirred,
Bygone days come to haunt us, there’s no freedom got.
The cries of the world smeared with harrowing bloodstains,
Such macabre scenes copied from yesteryears.
Like an eternal memory, the cry remains,
Until we all learn, the true meaning of tears.
© Ernestine Northover
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