The Black March

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The sun rays fell in gasps and
a black shroud draped the world
as the unwilling procession marched
down the muted street
flowers shrivelled and trees bowed
and I averted my eyes from the deformed faces
faces, carved with the searing tip of sorrow
eyes, scrubbed empty and raw
feet shackled to memories of laughter
memories of hope
and the deep black sky
wept for innocence was lost
salty rain beat upon the small white box
so small, yet so heavy on the shoulders
of those whose child was dead.





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