Friday, March 11, 2022

old poem


Lay them down in the fields 
of sweet barley and rye,
let them pause for a bit 
till they're ready to fly,
do not bend over them, 
do not mourn, do not weep,
do not trouble their rest,
let them sleep, let them sleep.

They will gather their strength
and together they'll rise,
all like one they'll take flight
to the still paradise,
where the children await,
where the wives of their own
they'll embrace at the gate,
where the fields lie unmown.

© 2012 Sasha A. Palmer

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