The frozen tears of Angels fall,
Their softness brings no pain at all,
Their whiteness makes a hiding place,
To cover up this loss of grace.
As I observe with eyesight, keen
No pleasure in this winter scene.
When day dawns new and bullets fly
I take this branch and watch them die.
My talons sheathed, demeanour grey,
I look upon some other prey.
No more the urge to take to flight,
To be the hunter of the night.
Instead, more like the saintly dove
I sit and watch their loss of love,
Of love and life and future dreams
Of epic goals and madcap schemes,
Of darling dears they hoped to marry,
Of children that they hoped to carry.
The young, the old, the rich, the poor
Their longing crushed, their hopes no more
Those who won and those who lost,
All have reasons to count the cost.
For some in pain, and some bereft,
With mutilated hearts have left
Their blood upon this field of fear
Splashed red against the Angels’ tears.