We flew with our rifles, searching to bite into flesh. Back then the earth had gone mad, the heart vacant of people. And on the cusp of the century, I vow to my GranDa, my Da to myself and my son, no more, I will see no more. No more the mud slick, nor the weedy black water. At midnight there is rattling.
Shadows move secretly.
At war we lost our soul, where body and mind were put on a stake, at peace we gain our hearts again. The Heron flies a thousand miles to find his lake. How we are so much like him. Reaching far reaching in we have nothing to loose. The crane bird has spoken may it not speak again.