The tree has stood here for centuries,
sitting at the crossroads watching.
Its memories of what it has seen
buried within its roots, scars littering its bark.
Looking over the endless fields as men
battle for their very lives. Fields soaked
in tears and blood, lives cut short,
brothers carrying the fallen.
Millions of untold stories falling into silence,
mothers never hearing the sound of loved
ones again. Somewhere a babe cries out
never again knowing the touch of her parents.
The fighting has stopped, leaders of both
sides sign agreements and the true atrocities
are uncovered. Promises of remembrance
are made and the broken return home
never quite the same.
The fields are quiet now, the great tree stands
at the crossroads. The fragile peace flowing
through its branches, the tree asks when will
we learn as he listens for the thunder of another