WHITE ORCHID FIELDS.

 

 

Why rests your home amongst dead leaves of orchids

In search of sustenance from rain

Green fields which once stood in palatial residences

Laid carpets like palms for kings and conquering queens

Graced by royal feet

The weathered remains of empirical silence

Change our season to dust and decay

How majestic things used to be

We wonder through those memories of yesterday

Now fire burns in your heart of hearts

Indignant at wasted mirth

The hills force shallow echoes from fights of valour

Warriors resound in silent metaphors

Shields so faithful gleam bright in God’s sunlight

Our feet shod but blistered

There is no peace for such a wicked cause

Heavy mud prevents another attack

Yet there is no good news on view on horizons of distant lands

We fight for queen and country, God know why if no one else

And beats that heart encased in silver plates of forthright righteousness

Fighting battles that unrighteous spirits waged on us all

My sensibilities shot down in flames

Dead men carry no peaceful memories that will be told from the grave

The walking wounded wake up to new dawns

But still no rest

For minds that brood, corruption stains our victory with the blood of killing fields.

History marks our future references

Where white washed tombs reveal our engraved shame

The thought of our names remains in our loved one’s hearts

We remember our yesterdays with grief

And every day is a battle with one’s self

Year upon year the weeds grow thick around our naked ankles

Carcasses lay rooting like flowers discontented

The cross no longer endears us to grow

The faith no longer strong

Do you remember that holy place?

That unholy war?

Where our loved ones grew cold in love

Where raving mad official decreed and sent our babies off to die?

Scores feel prey to that wretched lie

And gave all for nothing

Ignorance and youth are bliss

3 score ten is what they would have achieved

If only they had the power to believe

Now men who had dreams

Rest in white orchid fields stained red like poppies by their blood

We reach high for new beginnings

But we are rooted in our past

No longer idealists, lost visions plague or minds

They rest in white orchid fields, stained red like poppies by their blood

They gave up their lives and will and died in vain.