Their blood, the very strength in the beauty of our flowers and weeds.
Where we inhale, feeling not what they felt, breathing and seeing what death took them from.
Their bodies, the very foundation of the dust beneath our feet, where we stand and claim ownership and Authorities, which were stabbed and shot out of them before they could see it.
Their clothes and bayonet, holds out soil together, giving us the delicacies they never dreamt or imagined.
They sacrificed not only their lives but they were burned for the progenies they never beheld.
Their blood flows through the veins of our land with life, peace and freedom
We thrive in their irksome tears with little knowledge of what lies beneath the feet of our freedom
They are the land.
© kobby