Burning, falling, smoking, crying,

All the world around is dying;

Dust and snow are one the same,

They’re hiding a forgotten frame,

And in that space a plant may grow,

Rebuild a world; like words are so;

Or if a chance there might be

A civilisation across the sea,

Formed from those people who escaped

That burning, falling, fighting place.

The End

68 comments about this poem Feed