I make my way through the snow, <br />of the way many went, but not yet come, <br />I made my way through that sticky snow, <br />upon which lies a sickly sight. <br /> <br />The bodies mangled, mauled, and dead, <br />it's a sight that mothers dread, <br />for when they know their child's dead. <br />they'll soon cry upon the heads, <br />the heads upon which mark the dead. <br />They're not to run in golden fields, <br />nor take joy in simple crafts, <br />will be upon hearts like shafts. <br /> <br />The sight of this scarred black land, <br />is one of which no child should know, <br />not the slopes slicked with blood, <br />nor the poppies splashed with red, <br />not the wheat stomped to bread, <br />this is field, of which no child should know, <br />and that's the sorrow on my soul.<br /><br />Jacob Biehl<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-which-no-child-should-know/
