Red River

There’s a winding River in my country.

A River that’s red. 

Muted screams rise from its dark waters.

Screams of the dead.

Darkness hovers over the River.

It makes it hard to see.

Few know what’s in the River.

Blindness makes them free.

 

There’s a winding River in my country.

A River that’s red. 

Muted screams rise from its dark waters.

Screams of the dead.

The waters have no sound.

But there are screams.

The River is roaring in silent.

It cries out, “Please!”

 

There’s a winding River in my country.

A River that’s red. 

Muted screams rise from its dark waters.

Screams of the dead.

Many know the taste of the River,

Some fear to try.

They drink their fill as they wish,

Until satisfied.

 

There’s a winding River in my country.

A River that’s red. 

Muted screams rise from its dark waters.

Screams of the dead.

All have touched the River before.

All feel its flow.

Yet no one knows where it ends, 

None know where it will go.

 

Can they not see that the River is poison?

That the waters are full of venom?

Have they lost all conviction?

Have their consciouses dissolved?

Do not let the darkness blind you!

Listen to the muted screams!

Then the truth will find you.

Then the water can be cleaned.

Let not the innocent be destroyed,

Let not the undefended perish.

But let liberty be employed.

Let the unheard become cherished. 

 

Who is it that can deem one’s fate?

Who is it that allots love or hate?

It is not I, nor any thing on the Earth.

How can we then choose what each life is worth? 

 

There’s a winding River in my country.

A River that’s red. 

Muted screams rise from its dark waters.

Screams of the dead.

 

This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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