“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” — Robert Graves

Dark like sorrow, sad, depressed 

Where the elders body lays to rest 

A bad man fryd  left unforgivable strife 

For no man's whit can brighten life  

As the great steel doors close to the world 

As a killer hides behind the upper lip curled 

A traveler possessed by an evil way 

Mourns to see the light of day 

Hundred years of family roots 

Ripped out thy Earth by cowardly brutes 

For no man nor woman shall bare the sight 

Of their people scorched by fire light bright 

For no matter what yer peoples are 

The fires light leaves a ghasty scar.