The wondrous hues of yellows, reds and gold
fill the bushes and trees we love and adore
we recall the piles of fallen leafs, like warriors lost on the battlefield,
lay dead at our feet and into bags they will fill.
A journey only the dead may know and feel.
Ahh, will the winds of change ever blow?
Will all the wars someday cease?
Though the leaves feed the tree,
Can it ever understand
the utter futility of death's ugly plan?
Though older now, I plainly see
through politicians words,
peace may never be.
We the leaves must make our stand and
state our wants collectively through votes,
protests and in letters of demand.
To allow a few generations to escape war's terrible grasp of death,
carnage and the politician's plan.
I see the color on the ground,
plenty of red being spread around.
I see the spirits of those who lives who were lost wondering what will be the end cost,
of generations of people being killed due to hate.
What ultimately will be this nation's fate?
I can hear the silence of those who have died,
and the sorrow and wails of loved ones
that were left behind.
And yet we have a system that wishes to hide the truth of the many thousands who have died.
Men, women and children too, who have lost more
than just their voices, they have lost their freedom,
their hopes, their songs and their virtues.
When will it be enough?
Yellows and reds and hues of gold
nobody will rest until this world is sold
Justice is only a word,
just another lost clause.