We wrap our wounds in any kind of rag
Till we can make it off the battlefield
We walk for hours till we fall to the ground
To harsh fear and weakness, we must yield
Some dare not remove the dirty cloth
Afraid of what confronts their nervous eye
Some tear if off and start to bleed again.
And seeing this, they weep and wish to die.
A time will come when intuition tells
We’ve reached the central space where we will see.
The wound’s not killed us, so we hold our breath.
Wishing not to fall in apathy.
The lines and shape of face display the wound
The skin is thin, but life may be resumed