The Sons of War

children walking barefoot
soles feasting on shrapnels and fragments

city painted with blood

a dirty race, all heading to
boundaries separating silence from war

hands reach our for a beloved
not strong enough even for one's self

everybody is running
tired of killing each other
on a murderous trip to the summit

a thin thread of hope
no room for a single soul

dreams crashing to the ground
as each falls lifeless

way too far from salvation
too distant from God's embrace