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William Sinclair Manson

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My-Poetry / Writings · 5 March 2024

My Poetry. A Mothers fear.

 An old woman cried all through the night, 
 For she lost four sons in a bloody fight, 
 Their voices still heard, in a distant past, 
 Born so quickly, and died so fast. 
 Fought for freedom, a right to survive, 
 Worked so hard, to stay alive, 
 Born in tyranny, starving and meek, 
 Women and children, hungry and weak. 
 Clansmen hunting around for food,
 The rest of his kin, gathering wood,
 Mud huts leaking, raining hard,
 Fires dying, wood is charred.
 Freedom distant, lives are lost,
 Counting the sacrifices, mourning the loss,
 One day they will sing, depression will lift,
 Hoping that God will shower his gift.
 Death shall be rewarded in a life of new,
 The old woman sad, lonely and blue
 Remembering her sons, who fought and tried,
 To make life better, and live with pride.
 Many more deaths, when will it end?
 For rights and freedom, in which we depend,
 will it come one day? It’s so far a dream,
 Where reality rules, in a slow running stream.
 The spirit is willing, the flesh is weak,
 But death is reality, for the lowly and meek.
 For our freedom they fought and died
 Our women are widows and so they cried.

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