All Her Fledglings Gone
Fledglings plucked, from their nests, long before,
they have a chance to fly,
Then fed into the inferno, that he has conceived,
forsaking them all to die.
Each day sowing more madness, seeding the barren
fields, so bitter and cold,
Fueling the iron grip of discontent, as it gradually
tightens, the strangle hold.
Half-starved peasants, deprived of their potential,
with malnourished faces,
Thoughts forced, by wicked laws, to live dismal lives,
in impoverished places.
Sinewy bodies, formed by hardship, cold hearts forged
in ice, bound to shatter,
The misery, much too much, many turning to death,
where life does not matter.
Looking to free their poor souls, away from the lowly
peasant lives, so badly bent,
Unshackling their spirits, from never-ending torture,
in the unwelcome ferment.
As Putin harvests his fodder crop, more miserable
lives are let, in the field of pain,
Cutting mothers cords, stealing from the poor young
souls, over, and over again.
Destitute people, his cursed underdogs, this beast
bleeds Old Mother Russia dry,
Creating great wealth from the motherland, as he sits
upon his throne on high.
Feeding his loyal supporters, the Muscovites, from his
awful crimes, his evil acts,
One day the mothers of the federation will arise,
against the gluttonous pacts.
The disgruntled mothers, who have lost all their sons,
will end the cursed lament,
And Putin will pay, for his awful sins, the hungry
wolves will compel him to repent.
Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1 POET (December 2023)
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