AND FOR THE SACRED LAND, WEPT...

As the day bade its circadian farewell, the fleeing sun

     Pulled its last glow from weary war worn trees.

On distant plains, vacant honey cones no longer 

     Buzz with the songs of industrious bees.

The thunder of exploding bombs rains down dreaded death

     In the midst of innocent crowds;

As the swollen moon struggles to peep through striated

     Wind blown smoke and eerie clouds.

What is it in the psyche of man that pushes him

     To destroy his own kind?

Can’t he see that with war upon war, humanity

     Will soon run out of time?

“Woe is me” cries out the blood soaked weary land;

  When will peace triumph over this insanity of man?