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Tuesday, August 16, 2011

 they mowed the grass today
the roar of the terror filled the morning
cutting hacking crashing slicing
the fields were in agony under noonday sun
the birds swept frantically to and fro
mourning their lost nests
searching for the little ones
my ears ached with the screams of the living wounded things
after the anguish and the dying and the weeping
came a calm
and then
a fragrance rose from the stricken fields
a sweet sigh of pure beautiful pain
even though it was only meadow grass
the sweetness was there
and the merciful sky
wept a soft rain
onto the rows of fallen flowers
and the perfume swelled and  hung
in the gentle air
and my heart wondered at the awful beauty of mowing