“Come the revolution they’ll all be dead,”
His father said and he shook his head.
The boy, he watched and inside he cried,
Cried for the innocents who had died.
He watched and waited,
He waited and learned
And vowed to help with the knowledge he earned.
This kind young man
He thought: “I can.”
Out on his own,
He flew to the zone
He tended the dying,
Wiped tears of the crying.
Then one day, the young man fell ill.
His last breath left him and he lay still.
His mother, she cried.
Part of her died.
His father raged and he shook his head.
“Come the revolution I’ll see the bastards dead.”
Words Copyright © 2016 Samantha Murdoch