Exile
Blue sky filters, windows shut,
Shafts of light, you can’t give up.
Sounds of blackbirds, voices shrill
Escape is near, got to use your skill
The door’s been bolted, curtains drawn
For so many years, was it at dawn?
that the soldiers came across the lawn
You can’t give up.
Your mother was twenty, you were just three.
Father disappeared, was he able to flee?
In the years since, you’ve been weaned on the war
But now is the time, you don’t want any more.
The lock it’s been snapped, key turned.
If the militia should get you, you’d probably be burned.
Forget about worry, resist all the haste,
The worst of the struggle, already faced.
Out in the open, almost blinded;
The sun is violet, you can’t find it.
Grass is blue, sky is red,
You’re UN-CON-DITIONALLY DEAD!
Copyright: Anthony Leonard Ostheimer (ALO), 20 January 1972