Living ash burns upon this earth
A gift of pain from hand unseen,
Tears of blood upon a child's face
Wash over shattered dreams.

Crimson days with constant glare
To burn our mark within this rust,
If only we could turn around
To see the footsteps in the dust.

World within a land far away
Barren to our shattered eye,
Mothers search in pain alone
For gilded grace in broken sigh.

Sadness swells in this dark tomb
To cry alone at mans' disgrace,
We only hurt those within the womb
When we discard our histories face.*

- Christopher John Horne
  Copyright ©2003

Chris' Note: "The lines above, is a reference to the way in which we pass on our belief systems, values and judgments. Hence 'discard', we throw away the historical values of past societies, and hand this disregard on to the next generation without reflection. I guess, I was complaining that we are a long way from enlightenment when we don't take lessons from the past, and to hand the same method of thinking to children, shall keep them in the same status we are in."

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