Faye Sizemore


Bitter knowledge
gleaned from the wind,

blown as smoke from ancient fires,
fumes as those from a funeral pyre.

Their battle cries echoing lost on high;
Truth whispering; clinging like a sigh.

Some promises are broken again.
War and not peace, will be the gain.

As the mighty Eagle doth gear for war,
mother’s hearts pray, “No more… no more!”

Heard beyond the wind’s wail, high and away,
is the mighty music of the mothers who pray.