A March In The Ranks, Hard Prest

all fought for a reason the liberators fought, hid the freedom fighters, fought, hid ambushed once in a while lopping off heads that rolled over the sand, grisly blood oozing down our eyes turning our hearts cold as ice our hair raised themselves like armies of soldiers ready for action the conflicts rage on in the deserts, in the towns, in the cities a thousand miles away which unsettle the souls likewise a nightmare that has been stealing the light of our days and our nights from days the fall of the twin towers in New York has crushed our cherished dreams like a bed of wilted roses wrinkled petals splayed, sprinting listlessly across the continents from america to afghanistan london, arabian peninsula, bali, south thailand, south philippines south asia, everywhere where freedom fighers cry to keep their sacred flame torched with blood, to salvage the rightful place for God, tearing down buildings, setting off bombs shattering bullets into their enemies when is our turn? when is your turn? his turn? there too the liberators fight their feet and heart loose over the desert sand blandishing a plathora of first world weapons with the angst of an unwinnable war the shootings go on so inexorably we pray for God himself to pull a lid over the furnace of hell so that his grace flows over this fine great world of ours again and today the most unlikely thing happened - two shoes shot over a ducking president carrying a message we all wish to hear... stop the war, stop the war pick up your shoes, get out and get lost they turn a young handsome reporter who wrote his own headline story a hero across the continents what a way to send off an outgoing president who initiated the war which has morphed into a frightful mother of wars to the sky the liberators sweats trickling down their eyes and body echo the same resounding line their great poet whitman wrote a hundred years ago a march in the ranks, hard prest