Fields Of Death

Ricco Vao

23-07-2007 18:01:20

Holy no more,
The broken stones don’t speak to me;
They’ve lost their warmth, vitality,
Their Sacré-Cœur.
No mystery here:
They’ve torn away her shroud,
Torn away her soul.
But her sacred blood
Is scattered all around,
And, in the fields of death,
Scarlet flowers now abound.

Their hatred mounts, descending.
Fear in the eyes of children,
Fear in the eyes of men.
Our hearts strong,
But our power lost.
We sing our song:
In the drowning mist,
And our voices die
Like those we kissed.

That is our foe.
Meaningless descent:
We battle through our woe.
And in seclusion we contrive,
Our battered minds whet on.
Love and peace they do deprive,
To haunt us, forever gone.


04-08-2007 09:30:10

Nice poem, Ricco! I expect nothing less from the Fiction Tribune!

There's not much to talk about (the poem speaks for itself!), but here goes.

I could really feel a sense of rhythm in this poem. Some of it rhymed, and some of it didn't, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it might throw a reader off track a little bit.

A lot of it is very "emotional" and I noticed that it brings the color red to mind: "her sacred blood", "scarlet flowers", "warmth, vitality", "hearts strong", "those we kissed".

Great job, overall.


02-09-2007 05:18:34

Superb! Bravo! Applauds!


24-01-2008 12:54:05