Faye Sizemore


There are many echoes
winding down through time,
whistling in the wind,
metered in their rhyme

Warnings on the wind
that have been cast forth,
time and time again,
never taken for their worth

Sounds of death and dying
mingled with voices crying,
praying to fall upon an ear,
hoping someone may hear

History is so misunderstood.
War has never been glorious.
Repeat it again, you could,
heeding, if you only would.

Heard on the battlefield,
it will be to late to yield,
for those who won or lost,
too late to count the cost

Becoming ourselves an echo,
warning of old battles’ woe.
Crying because no one hears
just an echo upon deaf ears