And the blood stains the sands,
from our unwashed hands,
the color of the sun setting sky.
While a young child weeps,
for a mother who now sleeps.
And she asks the cold desert..."Why?"
See the old soldier stare.
Pretend not to care.
Just another close friend he watched die.
Yet he prays for the wife,
of this boy's cut short life.
And he asks the cold desert "Why?"
For the blood will not clot,
and the corpses they rot.
And yet, we still swallow the lie.
Was God on our side?
Were we along for the ride?
Did we ask the cold desert..."Why?"
Calypso@nebulae.net
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