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Who is the man who makes death from a flower?
  Who is the man who walks through fertile fields,
  with his gun pressed against the brow of the farmer’s son,
  
and orders him to make life flow from the dirt?
  What is red? It is the colour of death, which spatters the fields like the poppy blossom for which it was spilt.
  Green is the income from the outcome which justifies the means
  And white, white is the colour of the stars in their eyes
  Who are we? We are the family held to ransom
  Who is the man who makes death from a flower?
  He is my father
He is blameless

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I watched I documentary about these people who live a village controlled by drug dealers how made them grow drugs and it was sad so I made a depressing poem...