Bright Purple Thistles

The blood of men is like paint,
Bold not faint,
And the town is painted red,
Mine own blood marks the cairns
Each spot,
A different lot,
Where i bit, fought and spit,
On the graves who helped me,

Yet the rains came and washed,
And i watched,
The lands become drenched,
And they rid the stench,
With the sky's tears,
Many years, fears, cleaned,
Gone is one way to describe it.
I observe and wait as the slate,
White, shining,
Gone are the writings, with a silver lining,
The clouds move on and the land is lush,
And i rush,
Through the knee high grasses,

The bright purple thistles,
And the whistles,
Of sparrows,
New life,
Peace,
For now,
But the rains are needed often,