A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Heaven shed those silvered tears,
Slow, silent beads of daylight,
Slipping sadly out of frame.
The world appears
A smear of grey light
Straining through the window's pain.

Oh, how much does our Father weep
To find his sons and daughters slain,
Then hide behind such deep deceit
And call His crying
Falls of rain?

Let the blood wash from the streets,
Clear each heart from foolish stain,
And hear the splash of dancing feet
In pools, that tears of joy retain.

Post a Comment