A glass of wine for the bleeding men,
Can we have it please?
Like torrid winds on a stormy shore,
With blurred visions of their path,
And the endless gore,
Drenched in slapping hopes amidst the
stiff air,
The bleeding men stare still,
Can we have a glass of wine,
A glass of wine for the bleeding men?
So much bleeding,
That their skin has lost its color,
Thy haven’t lost their war,
Not yet,
But in war, they have lost themselves.
The birds have cried foul,
But like the madmen gone sane,
The bleeding men have stayed quiet.
Can we have a glass of wine please,
A glass of wine for the bleeding men.
Weapons
aside,
Of stones and of iron,
Of fires and of smoke,
Of ink and of thought,
The bleeding men do not come through
them.
It is the stone, the ink, the iron,
The thought and the fire and the smoke,
That which finds them,
Those ready to bleed.
For the bleeding men have lost,
Lost their souls in a cloud,
And now the cloud shall shade them,
Wherever, whenever,
The denser, the better,
And the bleeding men shall make their
clouds rain.
Can we have a glass of wine please,
A glass of wine for the bleeding men.
A slight tremble in their breath,
Comes if a drop of blood freezes,
Like a discerning wind,
The bleeding men worry of their clouds,
If the rain would become a hailstorm,
They must feed on their own
blood,
And reign in the shadows of their
clouds.
For the rain they want isn’t blood,
But shouldn’t wash it away either.
And thus, why some bleed,
Weapons aside,
Like madmen gone sane,
Drenched in slapping hopes amidst the
stiff air,
Like torrid winds on a stormy shore.
Can we have a glass of wine for them please?
A glass of wine for the bleeding men.
_