Poems ✍️

OUT of white lips a question: Shall seven million dead ask for their blood a little
land for the living wives and children, a little land for the living brothers and
sisters?
Out of white lips:-Shall they have only air that sweeps round the earth for breath
of their nostrils and no footing on the dirt of the earth for their battle-drabbed,
battle-soaked shoes?
Out of white lips:-Is the red in the flag the blood of a free man on a piece of land
his own or is it the red of a sheep slit in the throat for mutton?
Out of white lips a white pain murmurs: Who shall have land? Him who has stood
ankle deep in the blood of his comrades, in the red trenches dug in the land?