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Frank E Gibbard
London, England

Silver flash the fish through river weeds;
The skies are black where gunfire rains;
Their fins wave gently in the sun bright reeds;
Dark flak flies high over distant plains.
Slow turning they glisten with sparkling scales;
Beneath the roar gape holes and pitted eyes;
The fish are gone with a flick of their tails;
A twitch of a hand and some unknown dies.
They glide now slowly out of sight,
Through ferns which move where they have crossed,
Now dark and brown: the rainbow lost.
The blood dries black on limbs and head,
In paddy fields now filled with dead;
Those fields so foul, so fouled their seed
Where wounded fallen lie and bleed.
When shall rice in those fields once more be grown,
And men desist from sowing their bone.
Fish may swim in peaceful streams,
But terrible things should haunt our dreams;
They must be blind who see their world ideal
And not the gaping wound this Earth must heal.

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