The sun rising is heard haunting
the hills, staring its rays upon the felt
frost sulking with the same faces
numbed with rubber and gas.
A boy weeps for his mother
under the numbing wind
that carries no forgiveness, nor
hope or bliss in its gassy mist.
The mother went riding to the front line
for peace, as peace, weaponless, except
for her heart-grasp;
she was met by the venom of snakes,
constantly coiled and thinking
all movement is worth a strike
at the hearts,
even of those who pose
as saviors of life,
those who Christ
would cry to have
those whose cries
lament unheard through
the centuries and now,
on the frontline,
the boy’s mother is dragged into the snakehole.