By Mark.

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Gunshots in the daytime,

Crawling into the night,

Bodies. Dead bodies in trenches in the morn,

Unidentified bodies lay in the morgue, unattended,

Children, of a lesser God.


Little bodies barely a year old,

Chests ripped apart by government bullets,

Mamas crying by the road,

Trying to resuscitate their children,

With the only hand left not broken,

They try to cry but there’s tears no more,

There’s no one to cry on their behalf,

Because everyone else only has tears for their own sakes,

Everyone else, everyone else

Everyone else must cry too….


But even as we bury one girl here,

And two boys over there tomorrow,

The chaos, death,

Violence, brutality,

Hate and fear,

Cannot be brushed aside.


We are facing death on the daily,

By enemies and agents if hate,

To police bullets and brutality,

Living in constant fear,

Of what the night brings.

The beat of heart,

That drowns all hope,

The drop of tear,

That carries away all love,

Of a generation lost,

Maimed shot and killed for ideas.


It must never be forgot,

Our deaths are not in vain,

And will never be forgot,

Just as the names of the Gunpowder plot,

Because death dies, but ideas live forever.



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