Evolution of the Weak

A short poem.

The eyes of the seeker,

the hands of the sick,    

poor little village,

the bloodspill of the weak.

 

Crouching in the bushes,

lying in the grass,

singing hymms so silently,

the whispers of the weak.

 

Holding hands of the sick,

smiling with our eyes of the seekers,

killing in this poor little village,

evolution of the weak.