The frontier

One quarter of the day has gone
and I am thinking what's coming beyond.
sitting plain in my place,
I think about those early days.
The time when I was small,
the time when I made up stalls.
playing with friends and making new ones,
every day and every evening,
friends for fun,
friends of friends, all came along as the days had swung.

And today,
when beating cold is hitting us bad,
we are fighting for a land.
A land of history, a land of passion.
A land where poets made new worlds,
a land where children played in those worlds.
this land it grew- people and religion
and apples and raisins,
and now it houses- terror
terror of categories,
terror of hearts.

We were waiting with our guns,
with us,
alert! all the time.
Our ears would hear every chirp
from the birds that came from Amsterdam
and yaks and sheep's from the mountain sides.
We relished the beauty
with every sound it made
and distracted us of our main aim.
This aim was dirty and did no good,
for me nor they and the mountains that stood.

So human we are, 
made so well,
from years of hard-work,
of nature to tell.
To make us feel that salt in cheese
and see that crystal with precise ease.

So cant we mend,
this land and minds
and learn their life,
strolling their streets.
And wishing so, from morning we stood,
in the same place
hoping no guns are heard,
in sometime here
and eventually disappear.

But, then again they came from back,
and left us blooded on wall of sacks.