Static is the quiet around
while an army of beating drums
march in my heart and soul.
A long way away
the happiest silence
dreaming , remembering , tasting
the peace of the warrior
when the war is gone.
Now and again
beated, hitted, hitted and beated
wounds are open red as blood
the happiest hour so long gone
has left places only for memories to feed on.
© Diana Mistera 9.1.2013
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