Ballad Of The Army Carts
Wagons rattling and banging,
horses neighing and snorting,
conscripts marching, each with bow and arrows at his hip,
fathers and mothers, wives and children, running to see them off--
so much dust kicked up you can't see Xian-yang Bridge!
And the families pulling at their clothes, stamping feet in anger,
blocking the way and weeping--
ah, the sound of their wailing rises straight up to assault heaven.
And a passerby asks, 'What's going on?'
The soldier says simply, 'This happens all the time.
From age fifteen some are sent to guard the north,
and even at forty some work the army farms in the west.
When they leave home, the village headman has to wrap their turbans for them;
when they come back, white-haired, they're still guarding the frontier.
The frontier posts run with blood enough to fill an ocean,
and the war-loving Emperor's dreams of conquest have still not ended.
Hasn't he heard that in Han, east of the mountains,
there are two hundred prefectures, thousands and thousands of villages,
growing nothing but thorns?
And even where there is a sturdy wife to handle hoe and plough,
the poor crops grow raggedly in haphazard fields.
It's even worse for the men of Qin; they're such good fighters
they're driven from battle to battle like dogs or chickens.
Even though you were kind enough to ask, good sir,
perhaps I shouldn't express such resentment.
But take this winter, for instance,
they still haven't demobilized the troops of Guanxi,
and the tax collectors are pressing everyone for land-fees--
land-fees!--from where is that money supposed to come?
Truly, it is an evil thing to bear a son these days,
it is much better to have daughters;
at least you can marry a daughter to the neighbor,
but a son is born only to die, his body lost in the wild grass.
Has my lord seen the shores of the Kokonor?
The white bones lie there in drifts, uncollected.
New ghosts complain and old ghosts weep,
under the lowering sky their voices cry out in the rain.'
Related quotes
Ballad of the Army Carts
The carts squeak and trundle, the horses whinny, the conscripts go by, each
with a bow and arrows at his waist. Their fathers, mothers, wives, and children
run along beside them to see them off. The Hsien-yang Bridge cannot be seen for
dust. They pluck at the men's clothes, stamp their feet, or stand in the way
weeping. The sound of their weeping seems to mount up to the blue sky above. A
passer-by questions the conscripts, and the conscripts reply:
``They're always mobilizing now! There are some of us who went north at
fifteen to garrison the River and who are still, at forty, being sent to the
Military Settlements in the west. When we left as lads, the village headman had
to tie our head-cloths for us. We came back white-haired, but still we have to
go back for frontier duty! On those frontier posts enough blood has flowed to
fill the sea; but the Martial Emperor's dreams of expansion remain unsatisfied.
Haven't you heard, sir, in our land of Han, throughout the two hundred
prefectures east of the mountains briers and brambles are growing in thousands
of little hamlets; and though many a sturdy wife turns her own hand at the
hoeing and ploughing, the crops grow just anywhere, and you can't see where one
field ends and the next begins? And it's even worse for the men from Ch'in.
Because they make such good fighters, they are driven about this way and that
like so many dogs or chickens.
``Though you are good enough to ask us, sir, it's not for the likes of
us to complain. But take this winter, now. The Kuan-hsi troops are not being
demobilized. The District Officers press for the land-tax, but where is it to
come from? I really believe it's a misfortune to have sons. It's actually
better to have a daughter. If you have a daughter, you can at least marry her
off to one of the neighbors; but a son is born only to end up lying in the
grass somewhere, dead and unburied. Why look, sir, on the shores of the Kokonor
the bleached bones have lain for many a long year, but no one has ever gathered
them up. The new ghosts complain and the old ghosts weep, and under the grey
and dripping sky the air is full of their baleful twitterings.''
The Old Man with the Broken Arm
At Hsin-fëng—an old man—four-score and eight;
The hair on his head and the hair of his eyebrows—white as the new snow.
Leaning on the shoulders of his great-grandchildren, he walks in front of the Inn;
With his left arm he leans on their shoulders; his right arm is broken.
I asked the old man how many years had passed since he broke his arm;
I also asked the cause of the injury, how and why it happened.
The old man said he was born and reared in the District of Hsin-fëng;
At the time of his birth—a wise reign; no wars or discords.
“Often I listened in the Pear-Tree Garden to the sound of flute and song;
Naught I knew of banner and lance; nothing of arrow or bow.
Then came the wars of T’ien-pao and the great levy of men;
Of three men in each house—one man was taken.
And those to whom the lot fell, where were they taken to?
Five months’ journey, a thousand miles—away to Yiin-nan.
We heard it said that in Yiin-nan there flows the Lu River;
As the flowers fall from the pepper-trees, poisonous vapors rise.
When the great army waded across, the water seethed like a cauldron;
When barely ten had entered the water, two or three were dead.
To the north of my village, to the south of my village the sound of weeping and wailing,
Children parting from fathers and mothers; husbands parting from wives.
Everyone says that in expeditions against the Min tribes
Of a million men who are sent out, not one returns.
I, that am old, was then twenty-four;
My name and fore-name were written down in the rolls of the Board of War.
In the depth of the night not daring to let any one know
I secretly took a huge stone and dashed it against my arm.
For drawing the bow and waving the banner now wholly unfit;
I knew henceforward I should not be sent to fight in Yün-nan.
Bones broken and sinews wounded could not fail to hurt;
I was ready enough to bear pain, if only I got back home.
My arm—broken ever since; it was sixty years ago.
One limb, although destroyed—whole body safe!
But even now on winter nights when the wind and rain blow
From evening on till day’s dawn I cannot sleep for pain.
Not sleeping for pain
Is a small thing to bear,
Compared with the joy of being alive when all the rest are dead.
For otherwise, years ago, at the ford of Lu River
My body would have died and my soul hovered by the bones that no one gathered.
A ghost, I’d have wandered in Yiin-nan, always looking for home.
Over the graves of ten thousand soldiers, mournfully hovering.’’
So the old man spoke,
And I bid you listen to his words.
Have you not heard
That the Prime Minister of K’ai-yüan, Sung K’ai-fu,
Did not reward frontier exploits, lest a spirit of aggression should prevail?
And have you not heard
That the Prime Minster of T’ien-Pao, Yang Kuo-chung
Desiring to win imperial favour, started a frontier war?
But long before he could win the war, people had lost their temper;
Ask the man with thy broken arm in the village of Hsin-fëng!
The Little Homes
We have heard the cheering, brothers,
We have heard the martial peal;
We have seen the soldiers marching
And the glint of sun and steel.
We have heard the songs, the shouting;
But, while forth the soldier roams,
Who has heard the weeping, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
We have seen the gay processions
And the careless, laughing crowds.;
We have seen the banners waving
Out against the peaceful clouds;
Yet, while colors proudly flutter
Over noble spires and domes,
Who has seen the mourning, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
From the Little Homes that nestle
Where the smiling fields sweep wide,
From the Little Homes that huddle
In the city, side by side,
They have called the eager fighters
Men who went with smiles and cheers;
Pride of wives and pride of mothers,
Choking back the tears!
Women of the little homesteads,
Women of the city slums,
They are waiting, ever waiting;
And the sound of muffled drums
In some stricken Home is echoed,
Where grey Grief is guest to-day.
And to-morrow? Nay, the others
Still must wait - and pray.
What the Little Homes shall suffer,
What the Little Homes shall pay
Must be more than sturdy fighters,
More than women's grief to-day.
In the years that follow after,
Be our battles won or lost,
In the Little Homes, my brothers,
They shall pay the cost.
They shall pay the cost of glory,
They shall pay the price of peace,
Years and many long years after
All the sounds of battle cease.
When the sword is sheathed - or broken
When the battle flag is furled,
Still the Little Homes must suffer
Over all the World.
Have you seen the old grey mothers
Smiling to the ringing cheers?
Have you seen the young wives striving
Bravely to hold back the tears?
Have you seen the young girl marching
By her soldier-lover's side?
Have you, seen our country's women
All aglow with pride?
Then, shall we think shame, my brothers,
To give thanks upon our knees
That the land we love should hold them
Wives and mothers such as these?
Women who still hide their sorrow
As their soldiers march away,
Turning brave and steadfast faces
To the light of day?
Oh, the Little Homes are Cheerful
Little Homes that know no pride
But the pride of sacrificing
Loved ones to the battle tide!
They are many, many brothers,
And their sacrifice is great.
Shrines are they and sacred places,
Where the women wait.
Aye, the Little Homes are holy
At the closing of the day,
When young wives must face their sorrow,
When grey mothers kneel to pray,
Facing, all alone, dread visions
Of the land the soldier roams,
Then God heed the sobbing, brothers,
In the Little Homes.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The War of the Ghosts
Three Ghosts that haunt me have I,
Three Ghosts in my soul that fight,
Three grandsire Ghosts in my soul,
That haunt me by day and by night.
The first was a dark mountaineer,
Who hunted with arrow and knife,
To whom the turf was a bed,
And the wind of the moorland was life.
And the next was a mariner rude,
Whose home and whose grave was the sea,
For whom the land was a prison
And only the ocean was free.
And the last was a shrunken recluse,
Who lived with the dust and the gloom
And wrote of the Saints and of Him
Who went for us to His doom.
And all through the days and years
These ancient Ghosts contend,
And my soul is a battle-field
Of passions that pierce and rend.
And whenever a sunbeam alights
All gleaming and fresh on my page,
I am wild for the hills and the bush,
I am torn with the hunter's rage.
I am sick of the smell of a book,
I am off with the dogs or a gun,
Or I gallop my fifty miles
Before the set of the sun.
And yet from some loftier peak
When I look on the sea from afar,
I feel like one in a grave;
And I long for a ship full-sailed
And an ocean wide on the lee
I choke on the solid land
For the lift of the undulant sea.
Yet ever the battle goes on,
And ever there rises a day
When the Ghosts of the wave and the wood
To the Ghost of the cell give way.
Then the land is a wilderness drear,
And dismal and vast is the sea,
But cloistered in peace with my books
My soul is uplifted and free.
Three Ghosts that haunt me have I,
Three Ghosts in my soul that fight,
Three grandsire Ghosts in my soul,
That haunt me by day and by night.
Yet ofttimes there joins in the fray
One gross and sluggish of limb,
No spectre is he but a man,
Whose strokes are heavy and grim.
For a man is not nothing, I swear,
Nor a braggart am I when I boast
That though he be slothful or sleep,
A man is more than a ghost.
And my soul is my own, I aver,
The master and lord of it I,
And whenever I will to bestir,
All ghostly usurpers shall fly.
Then I what is mine will assume,
Nor diverge from the path of my will.
Though the Ghosts I have routed still call
From the desk and the sea and the hill.
poem by William Gay
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Born As Ghosts
The hills find peace
Locked armed guard posts
Safe from the screams
Of the children born as ghosts
Gates guns and alarms
Shape the calm of the dawn
Peering down into the basin
Where death lives on
Where young run foaming at the mouth with hate
Where burning batons beat the freezing who shake
Under the toxic sunsets they dine and toast
Their walls deny the terror faced by the children
Born as ghosts
Born as ghosts
One book and forty ghosts
Stuffed in a room
The school as a tomb
Where home is a wasteland
Taste the razor wire
And thought is locked in the womb
The tales that shocks the lives off the screen
Born as ghosts
song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Homeless Man's Departure
After the Rebellion of 755, all was silent wasteland,
gardens and cottages turned to grass and thorns.
My village had over a hundred households,
but the chaotic world scattered them east and west.
No information about the survivors;
the dead are dust and mud.
I, a humble soldier, was defeated in battle.
I ran back home to look for old roads
and walked a long time through the empty lanes.
The sun was thin, the air tragic and dismal.
I met only foxes and raccoons,
their hair on end as they snarled in rage.
Who remains in my neighborhood?
One or two old widows.
A returning bird loves its old branches,
how could I give up this poor nest?
In spring I carry my hoe all alone,
yet still water the land at sunset.
The county governor's clerk heard I'd returned
and summoned me to practice the war-drum.
This military service won't take me from my state.
I look around and have no one to worry about.
It's just me alone and the journey is short,
but I will end up lost if I travel too far.
Since my village has been washed away,
near or far makes no difference.
I will forever feel pain for my long-sick mother.
I abandoned her in this valley five years ago.
She gave birth to me, yet I could not help her.
We cry sour sobs till our lives end.
In my life I have no family to say farewell to,
so how can I be called a human being?
A Soldier's Nightmares
The sounds were like thunder
As men fell under
In heaps like cattle
‘Win the bloody battle'
Was what was on a soldier's mind
The thought made him kill his own kind
Once the battle was won
All bravery was suddenly gone
As he looked on the fallen faces
Faces of dads, husbands, brothers and lovers
With his false conviction of victory
The soldier raised his shoulders
He inhaled the air of praises
As the army rode home on horses
In the arms of his love
He felt this was enough
But as the night fell
Fear gripped the soldier's heart
Reality was very tough
After the triumph of battle
Came the nights he evaded
It was time to faces the ghosts
Of men slaughtered without care
This was a soldier's nightmare
poem by Hilda Ndenecho
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My Army, O, My Army!
My Army, O, my army! The time I dreamed of comes!
I want to see your colours; I want to hear your drums!
I heard them in my boyhood when all men’s hearts seemed cold;
I heard them as a Young Man—and I am growing old!
My army, O, my army! The signs are manifold!
My army, O, my army! My army and my Queen!
I used to sing your battle-songs when I was seventeen!
They came to me from ages, they came from far and near;
They came to me from Paris, they came to me from Here!—
They came when I was marching with the Army of the Rear.
My Queen’s dark eyes were flashing (oh, she was younger then!);
My Queen’s Red Cap was redder than the reddest blood of men!
My Queen marched like an Amazon, with anger manifest—
Her dark hair darkly matted from a knifegash in her breast
(For blood will flow where milk will not—her sisters knew the rest).
My legions ne’er were listed, they had no need to be;
My army ne’er was trained in arms—’twas trained in misery!
It took long years to mould it, but war could never drown
The shuffling of my army’s feet in the hunger-haunted town—
A little child was murdered, and so Tyranny went down.
My army kept no order, my army kept no time;
My army dug no trenches, yet died in dust and slime;
Its troops were fiercely ignorant, as to the manner born;
Its clothes were rags and tatters, or patches worn and torn—
Ah, me! It wore a uniform that I have often worn!
The faces of my army were ghastly as the dead;
My army’s cause was Hunger, my army’s cry was “Bread!”
It called on God and Mary and Christ of Nazareth;
It cried to kings and courtesans that fainted at its breath—
Its women beat their poor, flat breasts where babes had starved to death.
My army! My army—I hear the sound of drums
Above the roar of battles—and, lo! my army comes!
Nor creed of man may stay it—nor war, nor nation’s law—
The pikes go through the firing-lines as pitchforks go through straw—
Like pitchforks through the litter, while empires stand in awe.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Brave Little Soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must fight, I must win
Im a brave little soldier
Through hell and back again
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum, pum, pum
Ye though I am marching through the valley filled with fear
My steps are sure and sturdy and my aim is straight and clear
The enemy is stalking me just waiting for the kill
Like david slewed galiath
I will claim this battle field
Im a brave little soldier
I must do what I can
Im a brave little soldier
And I must take a stand
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Marching, marching onward
Searching out the light of truth
I did not start the war
But its a battle I cant lose
Faith will be my armor
And love my sword and shield
I must defeat the enemy
I will, I will, I will
A brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
A brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Brave, little soldier
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lament of the Frontier Guard
By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,
Lonely from the beginning of time until now!
Trees rail, the grass goes yellow with autumn.
I climb the towers and towers
to watch out the barbarous land:
Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert.
There is no wall left to this village.
Bones white with a thousand frosts,
High heaps, covered with trees and grass;
Who brought this to pass?
Who has brought the flaming imperial anger?
Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums?
Barbarous kings.
A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn,
A turmoil of wars-men, spread over the middle kingdom,
Three hundred and sixty thousand,
And sorrow, sorrow like rain.
Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning.
Desolate, desolate fields,
And no children of warfare upon them,
No longer the men for offence and defence.
Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate,
With Rihaku's name forgotten,
And we guardsmen fed to the tigers.
Rain On A Scarecrow
Scarecrow on a wooden cross Blackbird in the barn
Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did My grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry there's no legacy for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
The crops we grew last summer weren't enough to pay the loans
Couldn't buy the seed to plant this spring and the Farmers Bank foreclosed
Called my old friend Schepman up to auction off the land
He said John it's just my job and I hope you understand
Hey calling it your job ol' hoss sure don't make it right
But if you want me to I'll say a prayer for your soul tonight
And grandma's on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand
Sometimes I hear her singing "Take me to the Promised Land"
When you take away a man's dignity he can't work his fields and cows
There'll be blood on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Blood on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Well there's ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name
And some nights I feel like dyin' Like that scarecrow in the rain
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry they're just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry they're just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Australia's Peril
We must suffer, husband and father, we must suffer, daughter and son,
For the wrong we have taken part in and the wrong that we have seen done.
Let the bride of frivolous fashion, and of ease, be ashamed and dumb,
For I tell you the nations shall rule us who have let their children come!
How shall Australia escape it – we in the South and alone
Who have taken the sword for no right of England and none of our own?
(Can we bring back the husbands and fathers, can we bring the lovers and sons?
From the Dead to the homes we have ruined with the fire of our murdering guns?)
Who shall aid and protect us when the blood-streaked dawn we meet?
Will England, the hated of nations, whose existence depends on her fleet?
Who, because of the deer-parks and game-runs where her wheat-fields and pastures should be,
Must bring food for her herded thousands and shepherd it over the sea?
The beak of the British Octopus, or the Bosses within our reach
Who spend the hot days on the Mountains or summer at Manly Beach!
The thousands of paltry swindlers who are fathoms beneath our scorn –
Or the army of brave sons grown from the children who should have been born!
The wealth you have won has been wasted on trips to the English Rome,
On costly costumes from Paris, and titles and gewgaws from "home".
Shall a knighthood frighten Asia when she comes with the hate of hell?
Will the motor-launch race the torpedo, or the motor-car outspeed the shell?
Keep the wealth you have won from the cities, spend the wealth you have won on the land,
Save the floods that run into the ocean – save the floods that sink into the sand!
Make farms fit to live on, build workshops and technical schools for your sons;
Keep the wealth of the land in Australia – make your own cloth, machines, and guns!
Clear out the Calico Jimmy, the nigger, the Chow, and his pals;
Be your foreword for years: Irrigation. Make a network of lakes and canals!
See that your daughters have children, and see that Australia is home,
And so be prepared, a strong nation, for the storm that most surely must come.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Irish Soldier
The Irish soldier, cast for fight,
Stood to his arms at dead of night,
Watching the east, until its ray
To the battle--field should show his way;--
Soldier, soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight though they call you slave,
And though you but help a bandit hand
Uncheck'd to kill in your native land.
The soldier thought on his chance of doom--
How the trampled sod might be his tomb--
How, in evening's dusk, his sightless stare
To the small pale stars might upward glare;--
Soldier, soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight though you think of the grave--
Though it yawn so near you, black and chill,
Honor and courage man you still.
And o'er his solemn brow he made
The Christian sign, and humbly said--
``Your prayers, good saints, if I should fall;
And for mercy, O Lord, on you I call!''--
Irish soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight, although you crave
The prayers of the saints your own to aid,
And the sign of the cross on your brow have made.
The morning broke--the bugle blew--
The voice of command the soldier knew,
And stern and straight in the van he stood,
And shouting, he rush'd to the work of blood;--
Irish soldier, soldier bold,
Thousands lay round you, crimson'd and cold--
But over their bodies you still fought on,
Till down you sank as the day was won.
And the Irish soldier now hath come,
Worn, and wounded, and crippled, home,
The hated, and slander'd, and scorn'd of those
Who safely slept while he faced their foes;--
Irish soldier, soldier bold,
In your native land you now are told
'Twas traitor--blood on that field you lost,
For you call'd on the saints, and your brow you cross'd!
poem by John Banim
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Lament of the Frontier Guard
By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,
Lonely from the beginning of time until now!
Trees fall, the grass goes yellow with autumn.
I climb the towers and towers
to watch out the barbarous land:
Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert.
There is no wall left to this village.
Bones white with a thousand frosts,
High heaps, covered with trees and grass;
Who brought this to pass?
Who has brought the flaming imperial anger?
Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums?
Barbarous kings.
A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn,
A turmoil of wars - men, spread over the middle kingdom,
Three hundred and sixty thousand,
And sorrow, sorrow like rain.
Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning,
Desolate, desolate fields,
And no children of warfare upon them,
No longer the men for offence and defence.
Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate,
With Rihoku's name forgotten,
And we guardsmen fed to the tigers.
By Rihaku. [Li Po?]
poem by Ezra Pound
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Every Soldier Has A Dream
After a war a soldier sometimes has to cry as dreams of those memories waters in the eye.
It's very sad when this world of ours goes to war.
Peace is the thing that soldiers have fought and died for.
With hands held in the air a soldier cries a bit but people are blind to dreams that do not fit.
Some people abuse this world but one day they'll find that they've lost their battlefields and they are unklind.
Lost battlefields and dreams with no victories won, following the forgotten hero.
Here they come.
They bury the dream because they cannot recall what it was that made the Soldier stand proud and tall.
Soldiers come from all walks of life.
Sisters.
Brothers.
Soldiers with many dreams seldom shared with others.
Soldiers who had loved ones and families back home.
Some soldiers are just children
and still on their own.
Honoured I feel to remember soldiers this way.
I salute them have I your attention I say.
Stand at ease,
fall out.
Sir nobody knew his name.
Dear God you know who he was our dream was the same.
Undaunted was the soldier in the face of fear.
No turning back.
Each soldier shed a silent tear.
But I wonder why no one hears the soldiers cry.
Listen today as soldiers go to fight and die .
Try to imagine the soldiers forgotten dream.
Keep the memory of what the Soldier
had been.
It haunts us today and remains here in our time.
Ghosts with forgotten dreams remain.
Its such a crime.
What the soldier fought for is what we must redeem,
as we look back and try to recapture the dream.
The ship's sunk and they say,
we're glad we missed the cruise.
Don't take for granted things in life we shouldn't loose.
When the battle is over and the dreams don't sit.
Every soldier must cry just a little bit.
By Paul McCann
poem by Paul McCann
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Let Us Forget Our Villages...
Villages, my friend, are no more those heavens.
You used to tell about villages living, I remember.
Villages, my friend, are no more those marvels.
You used to boast about the ones quite variant, I recall.
Villages have begun to grow its heights,
Its vast expanses shrinking to a few yards.
Villages have sent away their caring mothers to the towns,
Villages have driven away their milky animals to the farm houses.
That`s why my friend, I can`t take you to my village
And when you offer to do so, I am not inclined.
Let us hide in the fortress of this city`s hard walls known to us and
Forget our villages where our memories wander as ghosts.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bells Ringing
bells ringing...
thousands and thousands
of bells.... ringing....
the chorus of crows,
the sound of the whip
cracking on thousands
of backs, , ,
black and white,
brown and red....
the fat-bellied ticket taker
stands with hand outstretched...
cant pay the fare... cant ride....
left standing on the corner
of lost, and nameless.
marching to death, leaving
no trace, no footprints....
the bastard children of freedom,
no home to return to....
look up, look up!
the skies full of wings!
bells are ringing!
thousands and thousands
of bells... and each one
has a name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rain On The Scarecrow
Scarecrow on a wooden cross blackbird in the barn
Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did my grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand
Chorus:
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me proud
And son Im just sorry theres no legacy for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
The crops we grew last summer werent enough to pay the loans
Couldnt buy the seed to plant this spring and the farmers bank foreclosed
Called my old friend schepman up to auction off the land
He said john its just my job and I hope you understand
Hey calling it your job ol hoss sure dont make it right
But if you want me to Ill say a prayer for your soul tonight
And grandmas on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand
Sometimes I hear her singing take me to the promised land
When you take away a mans dignity he cant work his fields and cows
Therell be blood on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Blood on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Well theres ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name
And some nights I feel like dyin like that scarecrow in the rain
Chorus:
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me proud
And son Im just sorry theyre just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me so proud
And son Im just sorry theyre just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tolerance and Tradition
Whole of world seemed so small
Emperor Ashoka had met all the frontier calls
Enemy was reduced to nil and seen no where
He proudly thought' now no heads can dare'
But what did he hear on battle ground?
Calm and quiet situation with no sound
Slain soldiers and blood all around
No one to cry for them or to be found
'Such a human cost to claim victory'
Emperor thought and felt so much sorry
Thousands were lying dead and no one to claim
He felt regret and whispered 'i this the outcome of aim'?
Suddenly his heart ached for human being
Even though he was emperor and big kind
No neighbors can now raise head in rebellion
He was the sole head of entire region
'No, No, such should not be heavy price!
Why large number of innocents should be killed for one promise?
He wanted to rule entire world and claim as an emperor
But had no goal spreading in minds any kind of terror
He had no joy for tremendous victory
Entire world was at his feet but full of worry
Not a single man should now be killed
Only peace and not war should be called
He denounced world and accepted sainthood
Sent her daughter to spread the message in neighborhood
He thought 'World is so hollow and need human care and attention'
He went for Buddhism in search of human tolerance and tradition
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Deep In The Motherlode
Get out of the way fat man. you got something to do
Go fill up your hands till theyre shining up at you.
You gotta get out while theres gold in the air
Its falling like water, coming down from the hills.
Go west young man
Earn a dollar a day just like your family said.
Youre rolling your days right on into the night
The head of the lines going way out of sight.
Go west young man like your family said
All along the wagons
All along the dusty trail.
Seventeen years not over a day
Like children in the wild.
Your mothers milk still wet on your face
And no one to pray for your safe journey home.
Out beyond the desert
Across the mountains by the fall.
Servants who leave their masters house
Are walking all the way.
The golden fields that beckoned you
Are darkened by the years.
Go west young man
If you knew then what you know today
Youd be back where you started a happier man
And leave all the glory to those who have remained.
So go west young man
Go west young man, like your family said.
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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