For Beneath My Feet

 The softness of an Indian summers rain,

falls in the darkness, which calls my name.

So that mighty rivers may rush

Amidst sleeping fields silent, hush.

Yet, still,

I feel,

the hidden pain.

thus I walk alone

in the falling rain.

For beneath my feet,

I hear the children of ages weep.

I listen as they lament in the passage of time

And I feel their anguish

in the secret places of my mind.

For through suffrage of famine,

And torments of war,

Their lives cut short,

to suffer no more.

Yet, still,

In the Indian summers rain,

I hear them crying…

Crying for those who keep dying,

For even beneath my feet,

They still, from ages past,

Continue to weep.

J. Allen Wilson © 2004