are there no songs for the children of the columbine ?
have all the bards gone quiet in the corridors of war ?
The experts speak, and warriors drone on.
They look at everything, save the worn faces of our parents
through the over bearing fragrance of the lily and the rose;
pick at statistics, publishing our names;
the metaphor of battle settles in above these quivering stems
this dying foliage obscures our muted sight.
wordsmiths craft, now, the passage of our steps
by day and day, and groups blame groups
and squabble at the lines of play forever etched
forever passionless. For us, no chance of fame,
our glory written by the scrawl of fire,
and not of children, children's young,
degrees, talents and attributes, no growing
kindnesses, no everlasting flame
will ever weave us resolutions
in these whispering walls of blame
How quiet you lie, who were so full of life:
how did we not hear the shout of grief
I miss the whisper of these women grieving,
where are our words?
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