grief from a thousand years away,
yet still the same grief we face today;
from ancient battlefields
white bones were buried,
but still we bury our dead each day.
bright suns chase every night
yet each morning is darkened
by the smokes of war;
red is the color of spilled blood,
as deep red then as we stare at now.
long lost memories and faces
wake us with sudden fright;
amid whispered dreams of
past friends, young loves, distant places,
we plod on with life.
under heaven
as of old,
we journey through
river of stars;
and as of old, we ask in turn:
why is heaven so hard to find
where petals bloom,
where silent waters flow,
where distant mountain peaks
rise up to a wide bright patch of blue?
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