The Blind Child On The Hill

The blind child on the hill sits and breathes to himself alone he shuts his deep brown eyes and wishes just to go home He flinches at the sound of a gun from just a little while away he can hear it clearly it's been going on all day he fears for his brother the child without a name they've taken away his mother and used her in thier game he rubs his torn up hands and feels the damage done his fingers feel broken and his soul now weighs a ton a cry of a distraught mother somewhere in the near but far distance brings tears to his wounded eyes as she begs and pleads for assitance what could he and they have done to deserve something so unjust and the only thing in thier defence is to run, accept no mans trust As the LRA rebels ruin thier homes and possesions and rape the women with no mercy to be seen they teach the children uneeded lessons on how to slaughter thier own with no sins to redeem The blind child on the hill sits and weeps to himself alone What will become of him and his once so happy home? He senses the night come in, his skin no longer burns the harsh rays from the sun have left him red and hurt He curls up on that lonely hill and takes in the cool-ish breeze he's wounded and left to die He dies alone and hurt... But free. [Another very old one. Written when I was about fifteen, inspired by the LRA rebels.]