By rbosaz, 16 November, 2024

The wind is leaning, whispers dark and low,
Across the fields of anger, seeds of woe.
A nation fractured, branches bent and brown,
Where leaves of unity have fallen down.

The frost of cynicism on every face,
Apathy's pale blanket in this empty space.
The river of dissent, a roaring tide,
Reflecting shadows where the eagles glide.

The hungry ghosts of conflicts past reappear,
Memories of summers, fields of blood and fear.
A nation built on stories, some of them untrue,
Haunted by shadows, whispering shadows due.

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