The annual poem to honour the fallen. Wisps of Smoke In the aftermath, the air swirlsin an acrid scent,the residue of warBodies, row on row,hail the costhate never sees Babies with bombschildren with gunsConflict never solvedYet, the violence, deathrages on. © Copyright 2023 A. F. Stewart
Published on November 11, 2023 05:05