Rose

Where once was blood a flower grows,
not just any, but a rose.
So delicate but filled with thorns
a tribute to the bodies torn.
Upon this spot the soil knows
of beings lost to senseless wars.
Angry people caring not
of lives destroyed and carnage wrought.
Summer days turned darkest skies
by mournful wails and babies cries.
Fought in vain for senseless gain
of oil, power, foolish schemes.
Butchered as the lambs in spring
gone forever hopes and dreams.
Fallen hard upon this place
the mindless chasm filled with waste,
left to bleach in searing sun
the bones of those claimed by no one.
The flesh returns into the dust
which with the rain becomes the crust.
Broken into tiny bits
a seed of hope to fall on it.
The song of peace shall fill the land
spread forth by Gods almighty hand,
and gently placed upon the ground
with angels singing all around.
The seed is placed,
for heaven knows,
upon this spot,
will grow
a rose.