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the hills are smouldering - the flags, hoisted in tatters
the birds would fidget, dustbathe, then perch and chirp, and peck 
as though nothing had happened; at the end of this treck 
we only know what hurt us, not what truly matters 

those silent moments - light bouncing off a tiny speck 
of dust - coddled in anger; still, our mind remembers 
that you can take what they once stole from you - in fetters
away from them, but you can never get it back

we are but what we strove for, things being as they may
broken against the shore, despondent and elated
arrayed in polytonal, ecstatic disarray

let us not leave our anger froth until we're sated 
let water murmur in these humble abodes of clay 
let us not make our kindness sour into hatred