The Crying Guitar

Tears from a string

Another morning preaching the word ‘disaster’

Fragments of recurring wrongs

Southern dilemma

Hands held high

Buckets filled to the brim

Colors mismatched with red and gun powder

Feet of soldiers, prints of herdsmen

The fuss going all night

Bringing the finale to the break of dawn

Last time I write these words, I pray

 

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