The air smells of freshly cut grass.
Their green blood was shed here:
An obliteration of greenery.

Once long and flowing, now stubs--
Their heads severed from their body.
Off with their heads!
Their cries are the whisper of the wind,
Never heard-- but felt with a sense of chilling.
It was all drowned out by the mower,
The undefeatable machine that has blood on its blade.
Yet-- it has never ended a life.

In this bloodbath; there is a light,
A metaphorical and a physical light that recuperates them.
What they lost comes back to them;
Their flowing greenery will once again wave in the wind--
They cannot be conquered.