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On the side of a hill in the deep forest green, tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground,
blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain sleeps unaware of the clarion call.
On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves washes the grave with silvery tears,
a soldier cleans and polishes a gun.
War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions, generals order their soldiers to kill
and to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Story Bone

That was the day that birthed a thousand orphans.

A thousand orphans were born that day.

In the shadows of the saucers a thousand orphans were born.

The day the saucers came, orphans were born by the thousands.

The scream of saucers masked the birth cry of a thousand orphans.

Take your pick, or any alternative.

2 comments:

Elizabeth said...

I thought that was going to be a poem at first, and then it started looking like one of those responsive psalms in church.

Steve Buchheit said...

I guess they could be read that day. I just wrote down the first line, and then my brain rewrote it. And then rewrote that one, wash, rinse, repeat.