Post by Sweetheart on Jun 30, 2011 5:08:34 GMT -5
(This poem was wrote by a peasent living in Russia in 1941, during WWII)
As I awoke, from a sound sleep.
I looked at a window, behind my feet.
The snow had fallen, the storm has settled.
And the birds all sing.
I went out, to check my crops.
When suddenly, every thing stops.
There was clouds of dust advancing.
Moving toward the East.
I wondered what happened, curious to see.
If only it didn't get the better of me.
It moved to the village, with no time at all.
Then left after a silent brawl.
I set off to the village in haset.
Not knowing what to take incase.
As I arrived I could not belive,
The village lay in ruins and dismay.
People lay in the streets.
Shot, killed without reason.
A river of blood ran down the road.
Mingling with the snow.
I saw a child, no older than three.
Crying and calling for me.
I ran to her side, hoping to hold her to life.
When I got there, she had already died
The horror of all, in this small place.
The murder of the village of Makest.
As I awoke, from a sound sleep.
I looked at a window, behind my feet.
The snow had fallen, the storm has settled.
And the birds all sing.
I went out, to check my crops.
When suddenly, every thing stops.
There was clouds of dust advancing.
Moving toward the East.
I wondered what happened, curious to see.
If only it didn't get the better of me.
It moved to the village, with no time at all.
Then left after a silent brawl.
I set off to the village in haset.
Not knowing what to take incase.
As I arrived I could not belive,
The village lay in ruins and dismay.
People lay in the streets.
Shot, killed without reason.
A river of blood ran down the road.
Mingling with the snow.
I saw a child, no older than three.
Crying and calling for me.
I ran to her side, hoping to hold her to life.
When I got there, she had already died
The horror of all, in this small place.
The murder of the village of Makest.