A Field – Poem

Who said I cannot post poetry here? Exactly.

A Field

 

What do we call a field,

Where’upon many acorns fell,

With their fates all but sealed,

By a distant ring of a bell?

 

What do we call a field,

Where so many came,

Ordered never to yield,

To perish in a hellish flame?

 

What do we call a field,

Where once green blossomed,

But now consealed,

By dead falls of autumn?

 

What do we call a field,

Where all that is left,

Are men who weapons wield,

Intent on life’s theft?

 

This damned field,

To which I was sent,

This godsdamned weald

For which no acorn is meant.

 

It is called a battlefield.