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A rust red dirk.
Between the stones set in the brae
There was a dirk dropped where it lay
Gathering moss and rust red stains
And other dark ancient remains
That told of times when life was cheap
When what you sow is what you reap,
Yet just another blood stained age
As life’s book turned another page.

The moor land sky dripped only blood
Mixed with the sun like tartan should,
From moor and glen the sound of steel
No more the need for life to heal,
Silence echoed from long ago
That drifts back as the cold winds blow,
Yet on the moors and in each glen
No signs of pain from hurting men.

The dirk, rust red from sun and rain
Could never speak, yet could explain,
How lands fight lands and men fight men
For swords reigned over book and pen,
And yet it still is so today
For mankind there’s no other way,
Until they learn the tongue of peace
The paths of pain will never cease.

By 33whitby4654

© 2018 33whitby4654 (All rights reserved)


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