We heard the cry of stony fields

       d. n. simmers
—After Nazim Hikmet

So much death
as the planes are stolen
markets plowed through
and other people’s lands
taken by lies.


They are all stones that a growing
season cannot heal.

Winter shakes a leaf off a tree,
a creature finds a place to hide.

All eyes stare up at the sky
alive with bombs,
not rain, not snow,
nor sun,
just the eyes of death
coming down
and bursting on stony fields.

So many places that are
full of dead stones that
counting is
too sad
too much
too often.

d. n. simmers,

is an on line special editor with Fine Lines. He is in current issues of Poetry Salzburg Review and The Common Ground Review. He is in six current anthologies and is on line in the Potomac, Wilderness House Literary Review and is in the current Red Savina Review, Nerve Cowboy. He was in the international anthology Van Gogh's Ear, Paris , France.

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