It can be said now, autumn.
Bright yellow leaves resting
on the ground. Death far
and near makes the world
empty of love and compassion,
builds high the rubble of loss
smelling of the decomposing
bodies buried under the blind
eyes of humanity whose heart
has stopped beating. The Sun
goes down early. The bombs
keep dropping, no change
of seasons for them. The dead
still lack the right pigment,
unable to change like the leaves,
those departing souls of summer.
03.09.2024
Poem Poems Poetry Verse
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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