Dia Mundial da Poesia – Defeat de Michael Prochaska

Refugiados da 1ª Grande Guerra


Blood starts drippin’ from the soldier’s wound
Seeps like sewage ‘neath the politician’s room

Deep in the house, white fades to red
And the freedom we’re fighting for seems to be dead
‘Cause we can’t win like he once said
No we can’t triumph over the hate in our enemy’s head
But we’re deep in mud over the bullshit we’ve been fed
While more and more soldiers awake in Heaven’s bed

The wind is blowing like a hurricane
In the frightening desolated lands
Where the wolves are insane
And hawks feast on bloody hands

Bullets flying, children dying, mothers crying
While the beasts are lying and hiding
Behind black curtains that no one’s finding
But God knows the truth, and He’s forevermore sighing

Too many hands washed in widows’ tears
Too many echoed gun shots ringing in ears
Too many hearts frozen numb from fears
Of hope too distant, like skylight chandeliers

Wounded souls soaked in blotched black fate
Disillusioned by dark demons’ fate

Persistent nightmares of woebegone escape:
Screeching fervently under Liberty’s Gate
I grasp the rope fabric with delicate care,
Neck tickling from its bristly hair
My chapped, dry lips whisper a final prayer
Before a tightening ravish pain permeates the air

A bright radiant flash scorches the cloudless horizon
And ashes drift upward, caressing my bare, dangling feet
Bleak, barren, biting malice below seems blazon
But the dead know not the sentiment of defeat.

Michael Prochaska, 2007